


Technical Assistance

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Felicity Smoak, Technical Advisor [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Chaptered, F/M, Felicity considers the Arrow and Oliver two different people, Felicity starts working for the Arrow early, First Meetings, Happy Ending, Humor, I bet these tags are gonna get long, Implied Barry Allen/Iris West - Freeform, Is that everything?, Let's see what I can tag off the top of my head, Mentions of Helena Bertinelli/Oliver Queen, Mystery, POV Felicity Smoak, POV Helena Bertinelli, POV John Diggle, POV Laurel Lance, POV Multiple, POV Quentin Lance, POV Roy Harper, POV Sara Lance, POV Thea Queen, POV Tommy Merlyn, Past Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen, Resolved Sexual Tension, Saphira the dog, Season/Series 01, Sexual Tension, She has no clue who he is, With long fic comes long tags, i think so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 66
Words: 250,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity Smoak swore she'd provide technical assistance to all who need it.  She's just not prepared for her newest client.</p><p>A story that shows another way Felicity and Oliver could have met.  Each chapter contains a bonus scene at the end.  Olicity undertones, with a definite slow burn.  Originally started as a one-shot of the same name.  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Data Retrieval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity leaves her desk for five minutes to find Starling City's Vigilante at her computer. Not his best move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea what happened. I had a conversation with PhantomPhoenix, and ended up giving myself a prompt with this. I liked the idea so much that I couldn't get to sleep last night for thinking about it, and now I've been working on it all day. I'm not sure yet if I'm going to continue this-or, if I do, when I'm going to continue it. Little Talks and Talkative are still my priorities, but I had to get this out of my head. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about it. Any reviews are appreciated, but thanks for reading, too! :)
> 
> This is very raw, as I just finished it, so please let me know of any typos you see. Thanks in advance.
> 
> And also, two references in this one. Like always, virtual hugs and/or cookies to anyone who can find them. :)
> 
> 6-9-17 Update: Thanks to AlexiaBlackbriar13 for the epic fanart below.

 

* * *

 

Felicity Smoak sighs as she waits for the coffee pot to fill with glorious, delicious nectar of the gods, her previous caffeine high already starting to wane and the fatigue setting in. Despite that, she still has a ton of work to do—those diagnostic reports aren't going to file themselves, after all—and she knows this is going to be an all-nighter of a job. It just serves to remind her what happens when none of your colleagues—or your boss, for that matter—is worth the paper their paychecks are printed on.

Despite the inter-office politics, Felicity finds that she likes her job at Queen Consolidated. The IT department has only the best technology and equipment, and the work is challenging enough to really test her abilities. But, like all good careers, there are some downfalls to the position. For now, she considers that to be the paperwork and the long hours. After all, a programmer's job is never done, and Felicity has never liked leaving loose ends. She checks her watch and her worst fears are confirmed: it's half-past eleven, and she's not making as much progress as she'd like. She sighs again as she realizes it will probably be another two-hours-of-sleep night. They might as well plug her up to a coffee IV by the time this week is over.

She fills up her favorite mug to the rim with coffee, the one that shows her problematic addiction to television shows. It's red, but the text on it is blue and reads, "Drink at once if convenient. If inconvenient, drink anyway. (Could be dangerous.)" It's the mug she always has to explain, but it's still her favorite. She starts to leave, but then realizes no one else is in the building. In a rare act of defiance, she grabs the coffee pot and takes it with her back to her office. She doesn't have time to go back to the kitchen for coffee every time her cup runs empty.

It's a decent walk from the kitchen to the Satan Pit (as she lovingly calls the IT department), and she's more grateful than ever that she decided to wear sensible shoes to work today. The panda flats aren't just cute—they're _comfortable_. She has to hold back a high-pitched, dignity-shredding scream as she turns the corner to her cubicle and sees someone that most certainly doesn't work at QC sitting at her station, using her computer. At least, she's _pretty_ sure he doesn't work there, but it's impossible to tell with that emerald green hood hanging over his head, masking his features. The first thing she thinks is that he wears the tight green leather surprisingly well, but then she shakes her head as she realizes that the _Starling City Vigilante_ is sitting at her computer. It _is_ the closest station to the now-open window, but _still_ , what are the odds?

Finally, she finds her voice—at about the same time that her anger overrides her common sense. "Hey," she snaps, a little too loud, and his head turns toward her, "did you ever stop to think that maybe that computer _belongs_ to someone—and that it _isn't_ just there for your own personal use? Seriously, if you're going to hijack a computer, at least have the common sense to go to the CEO's office, where you'll have more access. And, by the way, I _happened_ to be working on something before I left—and you better _not_ have closed out of my programs. And—fair warning, mister—if you've messed with the height adjustments on my chair, I swear I won't be held responsible for my actions."

He vacates the chair immediately in alarm, pulling his bow in one swift, fluid motion to aim it. Felicity ignores it, setting the coffee pot and mug down on her desk. "You're really going to shoot me?" she asks after turning toward him. "Seriously? I'm not armed and, well, even if I was, I wouldn't be a match for _you_." She motions to his very clearly defined muscles and over six feet in height, and then to her own sixty-five inches. "But, hey, if you're going to kill me, do it now, _before_ I have to watch you destroy my computer systems."

He releases the bow instantly. "You're not on the list," he says flatly, in a synthetically deep, robotic tone. He's clearly using a voice modulator, which shows a little more competence with technology than Felicity has dared hope for. Best case scenario: her computers might actually be intact after an encounter with him, which is definitely a plus.

She waves him away from her computers as she tries to assess the state of her computers, still flustered by the encounter. "What list?" she asks, crossing her arms. "Like, for Christmas? I'm Jewish, so I never really got the whole Santa Claus thing. I mean, I _get_ the Santa Claus thing, but I never really thought there was any balance to the whole situation. If Santa brings present to the good boys and girls, what happens to the bad ones? Is that who you are—like, some sort of anti-Claus who doles out punishments to the bad kids?" It takes her a minute to realize what she said, and then she groans. "Okay, I'm going to stop talking now."

It might be her imagination, but she thinks she _might_ see the corners of his mouth tilt upward. "What's your name?" he asks, his tone indecipherable behind that voice modulator. Combined with the masked facial features underneath the hood, he really makes himself out to be quite an enigma. She doesn't like being unable to read people—especially not people with murderous intent.

She frowns, looking toward her desk to avoid the question. She doesn't really want to tell a murderer her name, but she also doesn't want to find herself impaled on an arrow in the next few minutes. She lets out a cry of horror as her eyes land on a battered laptop plugged into her computer, and she can feel her blood boil.

Without any thought toward self-preservation, she walks up to him and pokes him in the shoulder. "I _know_ you didn't plug an unidentified laptop into one of _my_ computers and potentially risk infecting _my_ babies with horrible, crippling viruses." She realizes how foolish she's being and steps away from him, practically running back to her desk. She's relieved when she finds that the seat adjustments have not been moved, and she examines the computer for a moment, with its massive bullet holes and damage that can't be undone. "What did you do, use it for target practice?"

"There was an altercation," is the only response the Vigilante offers, studying her carefully, as if he's afraid she's suddenly going to take the laptop and run.

She sets it down on the desk, flipping the laptop over and studying the different compartments. She doesn't know what compels her to be so charitable to a man who runs around shooting arrows into targets and sitting in other people's computer chairs, but she finally says, "I'll have to take a better look at this hard drive, but I should be able to tell you exactly what's on it. The compartment seems to be bullet-free, but the other bullets could have jarred it. Computer parts are sensitive, you know, so if anything is loose in there, it could mean the whole thing is shot."

She focuses on tearing the hard drive disk out of the laptop with her trusty screwdriver, so she can't see his face as he asks, " _What?_ "

She turns to glance at him for a minute, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come on. You wouldn't be in the IT department if you didn't need some sort of information off of this hard drive. Tell me what you're looking for, and I'll retrieve it for you before you blow up the entire network with your incompetency—which I would have to replace, by the way. So, really, I'm doing _myself_ a favor." She waves a hand toward another wheeled chair on the other side of the area. "Have a seat. This could take a while."

He does as she asks, watching her work with the careful observance of one who has depended on his eyes for his survival. He's at least a little less intimidating when he's sitting in a chair at her station, and she's thankful for the distraction of the computer. After a very long moment of silence, he decides to randomly ask her, "Do you think you have enough coffee?"

Her cup is almost empty by this point, so she makes a point by filling it before answering, "Probably not. I'm running on two hours of sleep, and coffee is solely responsible for my waking state right now." She tilts her head to the side. "Do you _really_ want to talk about coffee right now?" She doesn't wait for the answer before completely removing the hard drive.

"No, not really," he admits. She waits for him to clarify, but he doesn't. Instead, he offers a change in topic: "Are you going to tell me your name?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, now that I know you're not going to kill me, I'm Felicity Smoak, IT nerd extraordinaire, at your service." She pauses in speech, her brain too focused on plugging the new slave drive into her computer. "Since we're doing introductions, do you have a name or a... _handle_ , or something? I know you have a real name, too, obviously, but I know better than to ask you for it."

He seems to think about that for a moment. "Arrow," he says finally as she starts a virus scan on the disk. "That's what the papers have been calling me recently."

Felicity groans at him. "Really? That's the best you can come up with? Well, _that's_ really original and meaningful." She rolls her eyes at his sudden turn of lameness. "I bet you're the kind of guy who calls his dog Woof."

He makes a sound akin to a snort, and Felicity thinks it might actually be some semblance of a laugh. Before she can ask, the laptop's data appears in a window on her own computer, and she sorts through it. "So, do you want to tell me what you're looking for, specifically? There's over five hundred gigs of data here, and chances are whatever you're trying to stop will have already happened by the time we sort through all of it."

The Arrow stays silent for a minute, but finally says, "This laptop was retrieved from Floyd Lawton, an assassin known to Interpol as Deadshot. He's after a target here in Starling City, and I want to know when and where."

"Well, that's really helpful," she mutters sarcastically as she sifts through the most recent file data. She absently clicks the JPEG file, thinking it might give her a target. Instead, it seems to be building blueprints. She studies them before giving him what little she can. "It looks like blueprints for the Exchange Building, where the Unidac Industries auction is set to take place. Mr. Steele is actually going to be bidding on it, too—that's why I know anything at all about this."

"Can you tell who offered Lawton the contract?" he asks now, rising from his seat to lean over her shoulder.

Felicity sighs, trying to sift through bank account information on the drive. She finally finds a very recent payment into a bank account in the Caymans, and she clicks the information button. "Looks like Mr. Lawton just received a very..." She trails off as she sees the sum. "Oh, holy cheese fries, that is a _lot_ of zeroes." The Vigilante shifts next to her and she finally remembers the point of the conversation. "Well, the point is, the money was transferred from a Starling City Bank account registered to the Halstead Corporation. And what's more impressive is that there's still money in the account after that." A few illegal hacks later, she's able to tell him, "The transfer of funds was authorized by their CEO, Warren Patel. Looks like that's the man you need to see about a dog."

She jumps about a foot in the air when the Arrow's hand falls on her shoulder. "Thank you, Felicity," he says with something that sounds very much like sincerity. "But I need to ask you another favor."

She crosses her arms before swiveling in her chair to look at him. "Just for the record? I am _not_ jumping out of windows or crippling security systems for you. The hacks were clean, and I don't mind doing that to help catch a creepy assassin wanted by Interpol, but I'm _not_ going to jail for you." She looks him over again. "No matter what you look like in green leather—or how well the mysterious persona and bad-boy vibe work for you." Once her mind catches up to her words, she silently prays for the floor to give way and the building to swallow her up.

She swears there's a laugh in his voice as he replies, "Good to know, but that wasn't what I was going to ask." He motions to the computer. "Could you possibly put that computer back together and give it to Detective Lance at SCPD? I'm going to need help on this one."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Detective Lance?" she questions. "The one whose face is splattered all over the news because he's—oh, that's _right_ —charged with arresting you?" Her voice is two octaves too high by the end, and she wonders why she cares what happens to the green-hooded psychopath.

"He's the only one who would believe me," comes the reply. "He knows that I'm trying to defend this city, too. Will you do it?"

Felicity swallows. "I guess, but I'm not going down as an accessory to whatever it is you're doing. I'm just going to say I found it on my desk after I went to make a pot of coffee." She pokes a finger into his chest again, but he really doesn't seem to mind her use of gestures for emphasis. "And you better back me up, if it comes to that."

"If it comes to that," he assures her, "I'll personally bail you out myself." Even though she doesn't want to believe him, he seems sincere. Briefly, she wonders how she gets herself into situations like these.

Before she can ask anything else, he's through the window, leaving a very bewildered Felicity Smoak to stare after him.

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance is in the parking lot, just about to leave the job for what's left of the night, when he hears a very hesitant, "Detective Lance?"

Lance turns on his heel immediately, but he doesn't expect to see a blonde girl younger than either of his daughters carrying a very large tote over one arm. She looks kind of like one of those kids he arrested at the nerd convention thing last year for defacing some superhero movie poster—but nicer, of course. The plastic, square-framed glasses make her look intelligent, and she's dressed professionally, as though she's spent the day at an office. Except for the shoes, that is, which have pandas on them and are dressed up with sequins and bright colors, and, frankly, are just really weird.

He knows as soon as he replies, "Yeah?" that it's going to be a very interesting conversation.

She steps forward a little more before finally saying, "Detective Lance, I'm Felicity Smoak." She does a little awkward wave. "You probably don't know me or anything—because I'm an upstanding citizen, I assure you."

He decides to cut the rambling short because he's sleep-deprived and not in the mood to have a conversation with a girl who's so high-energy. "What can I do for you, Miss Smoak?" he tries this time, hoping pointed questions will get her out of his hair sooner.

Her smile is full of irritation aimed at herself. "I'm sorry to bother you, but..." She shakes her head before trying again, not satisfied with that start to the conversation. "Well, you see, I work at Queen Consolidated. I was there late tonight trying to file some paperwork, and, well, I found _this_ "—she pulls out a very battered laptop from her bag—"lying on my desk. It was plugged up to one of the computers at my station, like someone was trying to figure out what was on the hard drive."

He takes it from her, and he realizes those pockmarks on its surface are _bullet holes_. "Do you know who left this?" he demands quickly.

She shakes her head, and he feels a little sorry for her; she seems completely frazzled by the turn of events. From a firsthand assessment, he figures she's never held a gun in her life and would be terrified if she saw a firefight. "I didn't until I notified security about the breach," she assures him, sounding more professional than he expects. He's pretty impressed that she can manage to keep her head on through this. "I have the video for you"—she pulls out a DVD—"but I thought you might like the still for when you catch him."

Dread immediately seizes him, but all is confirmed when she hands him the picture of the Vigilante at what must be her desk at QC. "I don't know what's on this laptop," she tells him, "but I think it might help you find him."

Lance takes all three items from her, eyeing the girl a little closer. She seems scared, and that's to be expected, but she also seems resolute, as if she truly wants to do this. "Thank you, Miss Smoak," he says before shaking her hand. "I can't tell you how invaluable this information is."

She offers him a small smile and a half-wave before saying, "Just doing all I can to help, Detective." With that, she walks away, leaving him to stare after her. The girl is a little blonde mystery, but he does appreciate that she's trying to help the police. Many have started to see the Vigilante as some sort of _hero_ , so the subtle reminder that some citizens haven't lost their minds gives him a good feeling. But, despite that, there is something about the girl that bothers him. She's too calm, too put together for the type of scare she had tonight. Either she likes to keep her emotions in check or she's hiding something.

But, either way, Detective Lance intends to find out more about this Felicity Smoak.

Save

Save


	2. Computer Engineering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity gets a surprise in her office, though it's not a box of puppies or a lifetime supply of ice cream. It's better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited to get this thing on the road! :) This is now on a Thursday update schedule, but I'm not sure if it will be every Thursday. The chapters have been incredibly difficult to write, so I'm not sure you'll get the chance to read new every week. :/ But, anyway, at the end of every chapter, there's a small "bonus scene" that ties into what's been happening. And all chapters will be 3000+ words, I promise. :) Comments are much appreciated, but thanks for reading!

Felicity sighs as she takes her strained, watering eyes away from the monitor. The day's work has been more intense than usual—installing new security features and protocols—and the added stress from dealing with Detective Lance has only increased the tension in the air. Ever since she dropped off that information to him—thank God she was able to clone that security footage—he's been particularly dogged about studying her. She's been down to the police station twice, and he's been in her office every day this week. She thinks she might crack under a little more pressure, but she doesn't know what else to do. In her paranoia, she hasn't been sleeping well, and her diet is now entirely coffee. That migraine has to do with more than just fatigue, she thinks, since she's been mainlining caffeine like it's going out of style.

She closes her eyes for a moment to relieve some of the strain, lying her head down on her desk for a moment and thinking of nothing. That's the plan, anyway, but her mind betrays her by replaying parts of that encounter with the Vigilante. The better part of her mind—the _sane_ part—insists that he's a psychotic killer, but that part of her brain that still loves Disney movies and believes narwhals are magical is certain he's trying to help the people of the city because the cops can't play dirty enough to win. She's not that naïve, but she still hopes the latter voice in her mind is right; she'd like to have a hero to believe in. She prefers knights in shining armor as her heroic icons, but she could work with a vigilante in green leather.

Her mini-break is interrupted by three short raps on the frame of her open door that cause her skull to throb with her headache. Before she can tell whoever-it-is that their polite entrance has angered the minotaur in her brain that likes to ram against her skull with full force, he asks, "Felicity Smoak?"

The voice is male and unfamiliar, which is the reason she dares raise her head and open one eye. What she sees causes her to open the other eye and gape at him. He's handsome, with dusty blonde hair and stubble around his jaw—and, Good God, eyes that startlingly blue should be against the laws of nature. It's a face she knows well, one she's grown up seeing on television sets and tabloid covers for as long as she remembers.

For a very rare moment in her life, she finds herself stunned speechless in the presence of none other than Oliver Queen.

She's still unable to form a coherent thought, staring at him with wide eyes. She must have fallen asleep and be dreaming now because there's no way _Oliver Queen_ would be standing in her office. She blinks twice, but he's still there when her eyes open. She can't believe her eyes, so she goes with the inevitable second option: this job has _literally_ driven her insane, and she's hallucinating.

Oliver, for his part, takes things rather well, just smiling a pitying smile at her as if he's used to people gawking at him like idiots. "I'm Oliver Queen," he states, sounding for all the world like the smug bastard she's always thought he would be in person.

She flushes in embarrassment, frustrated that she's made a fool of herself in less than a minute into the conversation. "I'm aware of that," she snaps before realizing she's speaking to the future CEO of the company she works for. Nicer, she asks, "What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

He winces at something she says before he smiles that charming, playboy grin that has lured in many a girl. "Mr. Queen was my father," he replies, his tone cheerful enough despite the forlorn look in his eyes. "I'm not anybody's boss. You can call me Oliver."

They're silent for a moment, and Felicity realizes that he's not going to continue until she rephrases the question. "Fine, then," she replies, hoping she sounds professional enough. "What can I do for you ... _Oliver?_ " His name sounds foreign on her tongue, like it's something she's forbidden to say. It doesn't feel right to be so casual in such a strictly-business arrangement.

He flashes another one of those smiles, but this time Felicity can see that it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Vaguely, she wonders how he _really_ feels under that fake exterior. "I'm in the market for a computer," he says with a lilt to his voice. "I had one before..." He doesn't finish the thought, face falling. But then the smile is plastered back as he continues, "Well, it's old now, and I'm looking to replace it. Walter told me that he got his last computer from you—something about customizing it for best performance?" He looks utterly confused for a moment, squinting and tilting his head to the side. Some might consider it adorable, but not Felicity. (Well, not _that_ adorable, anyway.)

Felicity nods. "I've built a few custom computers over the years," she replies, not wanting to commit herself to anything. "But for most users, a store-bought computer works just fine. Any reason why you need something special?"

He gives her a self-deprecating smile that he doesn't quite mean, shrugging. "Because I'm rich and I'm bored?" he offers jokingly. When he sees that she is less than amused, he tries again. "I'm a little... _concerned_ about security features. I'd like to have something that can't be traced or hacked."

She can feel her eyebrows raise in surprise. "You want a ghost," she says flatly, unable to believe what she's heard. Untraceable computers aren't really necessary for day-to-day computer usage, which makes her wonder what Oliver is doing in his spare time.

"If that means it's unidentifiable, then yes," he replies with that ridiculously charming smile, as though he can charm her into agreeing to do something so certifiably insane. He may have a nice smile, but once she sets her mind to something, it takes a lot more than his insincere charm to throw her off the scent.

It takes her a very long moment to decide, but then she realizes that, if she declines, she'll lose any chance at solving the mystery that calls himself Oliver Queen. He's a puzzle, with that fake charm smile and the need for an untraceable computer, and Felicity has never backed away from one yet. This one appears as though it might take all of her skill, and she hasn't had a challenge like that for years. And, besides, she tells herself, she's always wanted to make an unhackable computer, but has never built one for anyone who had the money to buy all the things she'd need. Oliver is the heir to a billionaire's fortune, so he can give her that opportunity.

Felicity takes a deep breath as she prepares to say the most insane things of her life. "Yes, I did customize a computer for Mr. Steele two years ago," she replies to his question finally, trying desperately to avoid talking about the minefield that is Oliver's five year break from reality. "I don't do it very often, but it's simple enough. I've never done an untraceable computer before, but I think I can with the right equipment."

His eyebrows raise in bewilderment. "You'll do it," he says, and it's not a question because he fully understands her words. She understands why he's skeptical; he's asked her to perform as Sisyphean task, and all she does is say she needs a good challenge.

Ignoring the not-really-a-question, she says, "You pay for the parts I need and I'll build it for you—to whatever specifications you want. Is that acceptable with you?"

Oliver smiles as though he's just won the lottery—well, not the lottery, she decides, but maybe a room full of puppies. "That will be great, Felicity." She's not sure she likes the sudden familiarity between them, but she's not quite sure she dislikes it, either. She knows she's playing with fire by doing _anything_ for Oliver Queen, but she can't really stop herself from wanting to help him. The man lived in his own personal Hell for five years; building him an untraceable computer because he's (rightly) paranoid is the least she can do.

She picks up her pen, tapping it against the corner of her mouth. "What kind of computer are you looking for?"

His head tilts to the side while he looks at her as if no one ever asks Oliver Queen what kind of computer he'd like. "I don't think I understand," he replies smoothly, with all the finesse of a crooked politician. Well, if he ever needs a career...

Felicity shakes her head to clear it before rolling her eyes. "Well, most people like to customize a computer based on their needs and price range. Since I know price doesn't necessarily apply to you, do you have any specific needs you want me to tailor your computer to—other than the encryption part, of course? How about this—how much hard drive space will you need?"

He actually seems to think about her question this time, giving it serious thought before answering, "I know I need it to be fast, but honestly computers aren't really my thing." And here she thought _she_ was supposed to be the dumb blonde. He's clearly playing a role he seems to think he fits, but Felicity can tell by that calculating set to his eyes that he's not as stupid as he'd like her to believe. "What's the going rate for hard drives—isn't it something like two hundred and fifty gigabytes?"

 _Definitely_ not as foolish as he acts, then. "Maybe five years ago," Felicity scoffs, but then she realizes what she just said. She wants to apologize, but she thinks it will probably go better for both of them if they just pretend she didn't just mention the island. "Now, it's more like a seven-fifty gig to a terabyte of storage space." She quirks her head to the side. "A little excessive if you ask me. I have a lot of data storage, and five hundred gigs are more than enough for me."

His mouth draws into a thin line as he thinks, before finally asking, "What would you suggest?"

It takes Felicity a moment to answer because she's so unprepared for _Oliver Queen_ to ask her lowly IT nerd opinion. "If it were me," she replies slowly, carefully, "I'd go with a smaller hard drive and put a quad-core processor in it. Usually you only _need_ something that impressive with a vast, abysmal cavern of a hard drive—like your terabyte ones—but if you put a powerhouse like that in with a small hard drive? It would outrun the Flash."

Oliver tilts his head to the side as he asks, "The Flash?" It's clear that the phrase has absolutely no meaning to him, a hollow set of words waiting to be filled with information.

Felicity can feel her face turn crimson, cursing her own stupidity for uttering the phrase. "It's a comic book," she answers after a very long moment, huffing at her own dorky references. When he still looks bewildered, she finally says, "I'm a nerd in all possible uses of the word."

He points to her coffee mug—the one that sat on her desk while the Vigilante was sitting in the very seat Oliver now occupies. "Is that how you explain this?" he asks with a half-smile that might actually be genuine, pointing toward the coffee mug she hasn't moved since the Vigilante ordeal.

She actually flushes at that, though she has no idea why it's so embarrassing. "Yeah, something like that," she answers noncommittally, not wanting to rehash the same conversation she's had with all of her coworkers. Absently, she thinks they really seem to have an issue with British programming; she still isn't sure about that show with the bug name that everyone seems to go on about. And she _certainly_ doesn't get why anyone would watch a show with a _female_ Watson.

The two of them discuss his different options for computers for a while, until they finally settle on all the parts. It's going to run him a ridiculous twenty-five hundred dollars, but he doesn't seem to mind the price. That laptop's going to be her envy, so she makes sure to type up all the designs and information, just in case she ever wants to make one for herself.

She finally passes him the sheet of paper she typed up when Walter came to her about the first and only other computer she's ever designed. It's just a release that allows her to build the machine, and that promises him to pay for all the parts they've picked out. "Just sign here," she says as she offers her pen in his direction and lays the release form down in front of him.

He hesitates a moment before taking the pen, brushing his hand against hers slightly in the process. He grips it in a completely awkward fashion, as if he's not sure what to do with it, and she realizes he's probably holding a pen in his hand for the first time in five years. She feels a little sorry for him, so she turns back to her computer and works on the diagnostic report she had been typing up before he came in. Finally, he clears his throat and says, "That should be it."

Felicity turns back around with a smile she hopes isn't pitying or sympathetic. "Thank you," she says absently as she pulls away the paper and runs it through her scanner. She's found that it's a lot easier to keep up with paperwork when it's not actually paper.

When he doesn't respond, she looks at him, only to see him staring behind her at the office door. She wheels around immediately to see none other than Detective Lance staring between her and Oliver. His expression is clear anger when aimed at Oliver, but it looks more like disapproval when he turns toward her. But Felicity will not be made to feel guilty for what is a business transaction.

Squaring her shoulders, she looses what she hopes is a pleasant smile in Lance's direction. "Oh, hello again, Detective," she says as politely as she can. "What can I do for you today?" She knows she shouldn't be irritated by his presence—he's just a cop trying to do his job, after all—but he's been here every day since she turned in the laptop, and he should know by now that she's not going to give him anything more.

"Queen," he acknowledges gruffly. He gives Felicity a sardonic smile before continuing, "I just stopped by to see if you've thought of anything new about my current case." He seems a little hesitant to discuss it in front of Oliver.

Tough, she decides as she answers, "No, nothing more than what I told you the last time, Detective. He didn't approach me. Just left the computer on my desk. When I saw the bullet holes, I brought it directly to you." After all, he came into _her_ office to hound her, and he should be prepared for the consequences of his actions.

Oliver seems a little alarmed by the entire situation, so he asks, "Bullet holes? Did something happen here?" There's clear concern in his voice as he asks, "Felicity, are you all right?"

Before Lance can cut her off, she answers, "The Vigilante left me a present on my desk the other night—a laptop ridden with bullet holes." She chances a pointed look at the detective before saying, "He was gone before I got there, but I caught his picture on the security video, and I turned everything into Detective Lance here."

Oliver sends Lance a sardonic smile that says there isn't much love lost in that relationship. "Sounds to me like you have everything you need, then, Detective," he says cheerfully, but there's a hint of something to it that might be a little threatening, as if Lance should kindly leave before things get worse.

Lance seems to take the hint, but he doesn't want to give Oliver the satisfaction. He smiles with no warmth whatsoever before saying, "Well, when you get your detective's badge, you can tell me how things sound." He turns on his heel before turning back, pointing at Oliver. "Be careful, Miss Smoak," he says, sounding genuinely concerned. "Queen uses people—don't let him use you, too." With those parting words, he walks out of the office. Of course, he's not able to see the way Oliver's face falls at the reminder.

Before Felicity can say anything to repair the damage, Oliver rises from his chair. "He's right," he says finally, then offers her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I do use people. But I'm trying to be better."

And, with those words, Felicity finds herself alone in her office, praying to the gods of sadistic humor to stop messing around with her life.

 

* * *

 

It's just after darkness _really_ falls that Quentin Lance makes it to his car, about to leave for the night. It's been a very long day, and the Vigilante case has yet to turn up any more new leads.   The Smoak girl isn't breaking the way he'd suspect—she was so shady that night, and he was certain she was hiding something. It's the same story every time, and he's starting to wonder if his cop intuition is failing him. At least they were able to get that information off the hard drive—but he has no idea why the Vigilante would want to know about the Exchange Building.

He reaches his car, and is suddenly slammed against it; a man uses one hand holding him against the car and the other to twist Lance's right arm behind him painfully. Before he can mutter every threat and expletive he knows, a synthesized robotic voice says, "Good evening, Detective." Without seeing him, Lance knows it's the Vigilante who has decided to plague him tonight.

"You son of a—" he starts to snarl, but he's cut off by the city's most notorious killer.

"You can insult me later," comes the sarcastic reply. "But, for now, we have business to discuss."

"If you think that I'm going to do business with _you_ —" Lance starts, but he breaks off into a yell as his arm is wrenched up even more painfully.

"You have the information you need," the Vigilante says in that discordant, unnatural voice, "to stop Floyd Lawton. He's the sniper that shot at me on the rooftops. He's killed two men so far, and he's working for Warren Patel to thin the competition for Unidac Industries." A staticky sigh echoes through the voice modifier. "The building is surrounded well for sniper perches, and I can't save this city alone. Detective, I'm asking for your help."

"It's my _job_ to defend this city," Lance spits back hatefully. "Of course I'll keep them safe. But if I see you, information or not, don't think I won't arrest you."

"Fair enough," is the Vigilante's reply. He lets off some of the pressure, as if he's going to leave, but, just as Lance starts to relax, he's pinned to the car again. "And Detective?" he adds quickly. "Let me make one thing very clear: Felicity Smoak isn't implicit in my crimes." Lance's blood freezes as he realizes that the other man knows the girl's name; there's no telling what the Vigilante will do, and Smoak is his _daughter's_ age, for Christ's sake. "I used her to deliver a message to you—nothing more." A cold chill enters his voice as he says his next words: "And if you keep pursuing her, there _will_ be consequences." He releases Lance, and an arrow lands home next to Lance's hand, puncturing the car and punctuating the threat.

When the detective looks, though, the Vigilante is nowhere to be found.


	3. Exploratory Server Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity gets a stalker, but it's okay because he just wants her help with computer-y stuff. This isn't a kidnapping subplot, but that's certainly a fun AU idea for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to blame a list of euphemisms for the title—it's not my creativity there. :) A lot of research went into this chapter, actually, and I'm pretty sure I now know more about shiba inus than I even thought possible. :P
> 
> I've decided to alternate meetings between the Vigilante and Oliver, so this is another Vigilante chapter--and this one was much more fun to write in my opinion. But I'll let you be the judge. If you want to let me know what you think, comments are always appreciated. :) But, hey, thanks for reading—no matter what you decide.
> 
> Also, there's a lot of vague references in this one. Virtual hugs and/or cookies to anyone who figures them out! :)
> 
>   **Just as a side note, after tonight, I probably won't respond to your comments until Monday. I've got some crazy things going on this weekend, but don't give up on me! :)**

Felicity huffs as she turns her frustration on both the uncooperative motherboard and the blonde girl on screen who has yet to realize that the angel statues are after her. (She reminds herself to stop watching this episode, since it always makes her mad.) She wants to scream, but she knows that's just foolish. The next time she sees Oliver Queen, she's going to strangle him, because his computer is just as frustrating as he is. She frowns down at the computer, then realizes she has her hand on one of the components. Thank God it's not live yet, or she'd be getting a nice static charge through her hair right about now. She shifts her hand away to find the part she needs, then starts tinkering with it.

She jumps about a foot in the air, stifling a scream, when she hears her dog barking in her bedroom, at just about the same time as the angel almost attacks a guy on her television set. She reminds herself never to watch the episode at night, but then her dog barks again. Saphira is generally very quiet, so if she's barking, it means that there's an intruder—or something _very_ out of place. She shoves the half-assembled computer onto her coffee table, pauses the show, and picks up the baseball bat she keeps for such an occasion from beside her TV.

She carefully walks into her bedroom, and she _does_ let out a half-muted scream this time as she sees the figure in the window adjoining to the fire escape, but she drops the bat immediately. Saphira, fierce as her namesake, angles herself between Felicity and the intruder, barking in a manner that is pretty intimidating. Her tail is curled over her back tightly, and her mouth is pulled taut as she exposes her teeth to the intruder. Saphira isn't playing around this time, and he's very right to be crouched in the small space, away from the dog.

Felicity puts a hand on the shiba inu's back, and tries to grab her by the collar. Saphira instead forces herself between Felicity and the intruder, and Felicity sighs for not the first time at the dog's tenacious nature. Sure, that's why she wanted her, but the dog can be more stubborn than Felicity herself on occasion, and it's just _demeaning_ to lose an argument to a dog.

"Very protective," the Vigilante observes, his voice modulated by a synthesizer once again. He seems to be more focused on the twenty-pound dog than on Felicity at this point—and for good reason. Saphira is a sweet dog when she wants to be, but she's also fiercely loyal to Felicity. Not to mention, she has the power and stamina of a dog twice her size, so he's right to be wary of her.

"Saphira, that's enough," she commands sharply, and the dog whines, sitting between them still. She looks at the Vigilante. "She's supposed to be protective—that's why I bought her. I've already had one break-in, and I'd like to deter any future thieves. She may be small, but she's pretty scary when she wants to be."

He tilts his head to the side. "You shouldn't be in an apartment so close to the Glades," he says, tone equal parts concern and chiding. "That last break-in should have been a warning to move." His expression is unreadable, but Felicity is tired of overprotective guys hanging over her life. First Oliver Queen, now a psychopathic vigilante. Vaguely, she wonders what she did to invoke such wrath from the higher powers that be.

She crosses her arms defensively, not sure she likes this level of demanding protectiveness he's giving her. "That's rich," she snaps, "a _Vigilante_ giving _me_ life advice. I like my apartment, and I'm not going to let some doped-up teenagers scare me away. Now, why are you here?" Then she realizes she has a more important question: "How do you even know where I live?"

Of course he ignores her question, just as she expects him to. "I need your help," he says simply, but offers no other explanation or apology for scaring the crap out of her. With the dog calmed, he steps into the room slowly. Saphira growls, but she allows him entry anyway.

The idea of him in her bedroom is starting to give her the creeps, so she motions toward the doorway. "Come into the living room, and we'll talk," she says finally, knowing that she'll probably never understand this guy.

He follows her into the room, head swiveling around as he takes it all in, but he uses an extra amount of time to study the TV, paused on a scene of angel statues around a blue phone box. Felicity suddenly burns with embarrassment at being caught watching such a nerdy show, but the Vigilante mercifully doesn't ask. Felicity takes her seat on the sofa again, the dismantled laptop reminding her of what she _should_ be doing—instead of allowing a hooded vigilante to wander around her home at will. He reaches to run a hand over it, but she slaps his hand away before he can mess up two hours of work. "Don't touch that," she snaps. "It's a project for a client and has nothing to do with you." She sighs before putting a hand to her forehead, willing her headache to stop. "Could you sit down or something? You're making me nervous."

He obliges instantly, sitting down at the opposite end of the sofa. The room is lit only by a lamp focused on the laptop for Oliver Queen, but he leans forward anyway to let the hood shade his face as much as possible. She likes his jawline, she decides, then shakes her head to clear it. Those thoughts will _not_ do.

Before she can speak, Saphira jumps up on the cushion between them, her head tilted toward the Vigilante. He takes the defiance pretty well for a known killer, absently reaching out with an open hand toward her. "I'm looking into the Peter Declan case," he says finally as Saphira sniffs his gloved fingers warily.

"Peter _Declan?_ " Felicity repeats. She knows the name well; she's heard it on all the news stations. The man was sentenced for killing his wife, and he's going to be executed in two days' time. "I would have thought that case was closed by now."

Carefully, he reaches out to pet the dog between them, and Saphira allows the interaction as his fingers rub along her black and white coat, with just that kiss of red separating the two shades. "Declan's wife was going to blow the whistle on Jason Brodeur," he answers. "Jason Brodeur is on the list, and I want to know if he had a man's wife killed."

Felicity huffs, seeing that even her _dog_ has turned traitor against her, cozying up to the man in green leather now. "I can't help you with that," she informs him. "You need a lawyer. This one sounds like it has Laurel Lance written all over it." When he doesn't immediately respond, she continues, "You know, Laurel Lance? She's a hotshot lawyer that takes cases like this—you know, defends those who can't afford high-priced attorneys. She dated Oliver Queen before the whole 'castaway' thing. Bad taste in men aside, she seems like a really awesome lawyer. She seems like the type that would do anything to save the life of an innocent man."

He doesn't answer any of that, but instead says, "Before I can take it to any attorney"—the words roll out of his mouth like he's thinking about enlisting Laurel's help—"I need to know if there were any other leads the police might have had." His hand is absently running over the twenty-pound shiba now situated in his lap, and Saphira is eating up the attention. It's surprising how quickly he earned her trust, but, then again, she's always been told that dogs always fall in line for stronger personalities. She has no doubt the Vigilante is a strong personality

"Oh," Felicity says quietly, not sure what to say next. But then the realization hits her like a battering ram and she gasps, " _Oh!_ You want _me_ to break into the _SCPD_ server? Because, you know, I almost got arrested after your last interference in my life, and I _can't_ go to jail. I'm not mean enough to last a day in there, and—"

The Arrow cuts her short. "Detective Lance will not bother you any longer," he assures her with an air of finality in his tone. A shiver of dread worms its way down her spine.

Felicity gasps. "Please don't tell me you killed him," she begs. "I mean, he was annoying, but it was only because he's a good cop trying to find someone he believes to be a bad guy. He doesn't deserve to _die_ —"

He cuts her off again. "No," he says sharply. "I didn't kill him." Felicity releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I simply warned him that there would be consequences if he pursued you again."

An errant thought makes its way out of her mouth: "How did you even know he was going after me?" She's starting to feel a little creeped out by how much he seems to know about her life, and she vaguely wonders if she has a stalker now. She did that once, and she's not interested in another.

He doesn't answer her, and she thinks that if he dodges bullets with the same grace he dodges questions, it's little wonder why no one has killed him. "Will you help me? A man's life is on the line, Felicity." He isn't really begging, but Felicity has a feeling that this is perhaps as close as he'll ever get to pleading with her.

She sighs in defeat as she lifts her laptop from beside Oliver's mostly-dismantled one next to it. Her fingers fly over the keyboard for a moment, but she's finally able to tell him, "Wow, they had blood, fingerprints, motive—pretty much everything they needed to convict him. Slam dunk for the District Attorney's office." She scans the file for a moment before adding, "The statement from Declan says that his wife went to blow the whistle on something to her supervisor, but he says it didn't happen." She moves off to another file to answer the question she already knows to anticipate. "It looks like the supervisor's name is... Matt Isthook."

"Can you print that information for me?" he asks now, again offering no further explanation. He seems to be good at doing that, and it doesn't irritate her as much now as it did the first time.

This time, though, he doesn't have to because Felicity already understands. "You're going to take this to Laurel," she states, fully aware it's going to be his action. She doesn't wait for his confirmation before pressing the print button. She frowns as she realizes she'll have to buy a new printer now; anyone can trace a print-off to a printer nowadays. "You owe me a printer," she mutters, softly enough she thinks he won't hear it.

He steps over to her printer and waits for it to discharge all the information. "I'll see that you get a new one," he promises with the same authority that he used when he told her that Lance wouldn't bother her anymore. She stares at the back of him a little too long, ogling his... _better features_. Her face heats when he catches her, and she turns away instantly.

When she turns back to him, she sees that he's already starting to turn toward her bedroom to leave. "Wait," she calls, and he turns to her immediately. "I'm glad to help you and all—don't get me wrong—but I want you to promise me you won't use my information to kill anyone. Helping you protect this city is one thing, but being an accomplice to murder is another thing entirely." She crosses her arms for emphasis.

He doesn't have to answer—and she doesn't really expect him to—but he takes several steps toward her, close enough for her to see the black mask across his eyes, before he says, "I promise." There's a sincerity to his tone that she doesn't dare doubt, and she doesn't think she wants to do so.

Before she can acknowledge his statement, he's out of the apartment, leaving her to ponder her thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Laurel Lance turns the key to her apartment, frowning when she realizes how dark it is in the room. She knows she's paid her bill, so she doesn't quite expect it. She takes a few more steps into the room, that sixth sense of danger creeping up her spine. She pulls the gun she has in the drawer of her cabinet in the doorway, which she keeps for just such emergencies.

Her previous surprise is _nothing_ compared to how she feels when she sees the hooded figure standing in front of the window in the space she uses as an office. She knows the stories, both what she's heard on the news and what she's heard from her dad. She doesn't hesitate a second as she raises the gun. The man is a killer, and while she doesn't know what he wants with her, she's also not the kind of girl who takes chances. Well, at least not since she dated Oliver Queen.

If he's daunted by the gun between them, he doesn't show it. "Hello, Laurel," he says quietly, as though they're old buddies and he's just stopping by to chat. The tone is distorted by some sort of electronic device, and computers have never really been her thing.

She shakes the gun between them for emphasis. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you," she demands, taking better aim. The last thing she wants is for this creep to get the jump on her, and she's not going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He holds up the bow between them in a nonthreatening way, his other hand far away from the quiver strapped to his back. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, his voice soft and low, so surprisingly gentle for a man known in his own city as a killer. Before she can retort that she knows that because _she's_ the one with a gun, he continues, "I could use your help."

He steps toward her, and she doesn't hesitate to fire, but the only thing leaving the gun is the soft _click click click_ of an empty chamber. She's confused for a moment because she knows she leaves the gun loaded, but then he holds up a clip of bullets. She wonders how he knew where she kept the gun, but then she figures even a criminal can get lucky every now and again. "If you're going to shoot me," he says, "you might need these. I'll give them back to you once we're done. I promise."

She means to tell him that she doesn't believe him, but it comes out as, "What do you want?" Her voice is tired, strained with the irritation she's gained since playing games with this cretin.

She thinks she can see a hint of a satisfactory smile trace those lips. "What do you know about the Peter Declan case?" he counters fluidly. She doesn't like the way he answers her question with his own, but she's trying to mask the frustration brewing behind her expression. The last thing she needs is to fly at him in a rage and get herself killed—and she's _sure_ he's just as good in a fistfight as he is with arrows.

She thinks a moment before saying, "Declan is set to be executed in twenty-four hours. The man killed his wife." She has no sympathy for criminals, and she wants to tell the Vigilante that, but she's too afraid to say anything against him now that she's defenseless.

"Peter Declan is innocent," he proclaims. "The real mastermind behind this crime is Jason Brodeur. Declan's wife was going to blow the whistle on something within Brodeur's chemical company, and he had her silenced." He throws something that looks like a case file across her desk, along with what looks like a signed confession. "Matt Isthook, her direct supervisor, admits that in his letter. This should be all you need to send Peter Declan home to his daughter."

Laurel examines the files for a moment before she focuses on him again to ask, "Why me?" When he doesn't immediately answer, she tries again. "There has to be a thousand lawyers in this town. What made you choose _me_ out of all of them?"

His answer is slow and hesitant. "Because you come highly recommended," he answers finally. "And I know that you're the kind of person who would stop at nothing to save the life of an innocent man."

It scares her how well he already knows her, how his words strike home. She wonders vaguely if she's ever met him before when he's not all hooded up and murderous, but then she realizes that she wouldn't meet anyone so obviously deranged on the street. She then ponders who referred him to her, and then thinks she should probably stop allowing her clients to loan out her name and card like that.

She sighs after a long moment, knowing she's going to play into his hand, something that she doesn't like _at all_. "Fine," she snaps, trying to sound disgruntled to work up the feeling. "I'll see what I can do for Declan, but I'm not going to promise anything." She thinks for a moment before asking, "How do I contact you?"

He offers her a black smartphone, which he also slides onto the desk, along with the clip of bullets. "Call me when you have information for me," he says quickly, and then he's through the window again and gone before she can take any more shots at him, leaving Laurel to ponder her thoughts in the dark. And then the light comes on.

So she does what she does best: sits at her desk and analyzes the information she was given. She decides she'll pour over the books for a few hours, and then she promises she'll do her best to save Peter Declan. After all, someone out there is counting on her to do her best job—someone who knew enough to send the Vigilante to her over this.

Whoever it is, she doesn't quite know, but she won't fail them.


	4. Initial Computer Setup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity does some things for Oliver. Just the usual, like removing an old computer, setting up the new one, and hiring a lawyer on his behalf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, the rating on this has officially gone up, so if you shouldn't be reading Teen (mine roughly being the equivalent of a mild PG-13), please see yourselves out. I don't think this should apply to anyone, though; it shouldn't be any worse than the show itself. :)
> 
> Secondly, this was an interesting chapter to write. I actually explained a reference in this one because (a) I didn't think anyone would get it, and (b) for conversation's sake. The bonus scene on this was incredibly fun because, well, you'll see. :P As always, reviews/comments/questions are perfectly welcome and appreciated, but thanks for reading despite what you choose to do afterward. :)
> 
> Also, special thanks to an anonymous reviewer on ff.net. They were kind enough to point out that it should be the city of "Omashu," not "Ba Sing Se." Thanks, Anon, for the love and the correction--I'm glad you waved the geek stick. :) Obviously it's been too long since I watched that show, and I guess I think I'm funny. :P

Felicity Smoak has never felt so out-of-place in her life as when she drives up to the Queen mansion in her Mini Cooper with Oliver's newly assembled computer.  She feels like she's at homecoming all over again, but this time she's sitting in the middle of the popular crowd with her nose in a book.  She shouldn't be here, but of course Oliver wanted the damn laptop delivered to him.  She doesn't want to go in there, but she doesn't really have a choice.

She squares her shoulders as she walks up to the door and dares ring the doorbell.  She's only mildly surprised when a maid opens the door.  "May I help you?" she asks in a light accent that takes Felicity a moment to identify.  Russian, probably, but it could just as easily be Ukrainian or another Slavic language.

"Yeah, hi," she answers awkwardly, but she's just glad her voice isn't shaking—or worse, she could have her voice crack like a boy going through puberty.  "My name is Felicity Smoak.  I'm not sure if—"

The woman nods, smiles.  "Please, Miss Smoak," she says, opening the door wide and waving her in.  "Mister Oliver is expecting you.  He should be down soon."  Felicity balks at the use of "Mister Oliver," but she follows the nice, motherly woman into the foyer.

She can barely hold back a gasp of surprise as she walks into the impressive entrance, examining the high arch of the ceiling, the wooden staircase, and the ornate decor.  The maid leads her into the foyer, with expensive-looking furniture and a very nice plasma TV on the wall.  She's even more intimidated by the mansion now than before; she should _seriously_ not be here.  After all, Felicity's idea of fancy is a dinner at Olive Garden, and she's pretty sure that's a Rembrandt—the real thing, not a print—on the wall.

"Mister Oliver will be with you shortly," she offers kindly, and she beams when Felicity thanks her.  She's clearly not used to kind, fair treatment from the Starling City elite, and Felicity can't help but feel a little sorry for her.  Felicity may not have the world's best job, but at least she's treated like an actual human being every day.

The maid disappears, and Felicity sits in silence for a very long moment, letting her thoughts run wild as she looks around the room.  She actually dares to sit on the expensive sofa, and she finds it's rather comfortable for high-priced furniture (not that she has much experience with that).  Even the coffee table looks expensive, and she finds a very nice collection of Shakespeare's plays sitting on the table as part of the decor.  It looks old, and she wonders if it's worth anything.  But, knowing the Queen mansion, it probably is.  After all, she reminds herself, these are the kind of people who blow their noses on hundred-dollar bills.

She almost misses it when the girl walks in, her chocolate-colored hair wavy and long.  She's young and beautiful, and bored in the same sense that Felicity has always imagined the idle rich.  She knows on sight the girl is Thea Queen, but the camera doesn't do the girl justice.  But, then again, maybe it does; she's pretty wasted in most of those paparazzi shots that splatter across the local tabloids.

The girl narrows her eyes at Felicity, and she feels a tendril of dread work its way down her spine.  The stories say that Thea has a temper, and that it does _not_ bode well to be on her bad side.  Felicity swallows, and the girl says to her, "Let me guess—you're here to see my brother."  It's a statement, not a question, and the disdain in her voice is as clear as day—as well as the implication she's making.

All Felicity knows is that she wants to set her straight, but that somehow leaves her mouth in a rush of, "Oliver and I have never had sex."   She turns crimson when she realizes what she says, and she puts a hand to her forehead and moans, "You know, I should just have my mouth sewed shut—it would save me a lot of trouble."

She's not sure what she expects as a response, but Thea falls onto the opposite sofa, laughing.  Felicity envies the way she still manages to be graceful with the action, even as she wipes tears from her eyes.  After she finally sobers, she says with a lilt to her voice, "You're not like the others, are you?"  Before Felicity can respond, Thea shakes her head.  "I'm sorry—I'm being rude."

She's saved from answering by a lilting British accent as Walter Steele comes into the room.  "Allow me to make introductions," he offers politely.  "Miss Smoak, this is my stepdaughter, Thea Queen.  Thea, this is Felicity Smoak.  She's a computer technician in our IT department at Queen Consolidated."  Turning back to Felicity he asks, "I trust Oliver came to you about a custom computer system?"

Felicity nods.  "Yes, Mr. Steele—thank you for the recommendation, by the way.  That's actually why I'm here—I finished it, and he asked me to deliver it to him."  She pats the briefcase next to her.  "I just need to make sure it meets expectations."

Walter nods, doing one of those little half-smiles.  "I trust that it will," he says with sincerity, before clasping his hands together.  "I'm afraid I'm needed at the office, but I'll see you both later."  He kisses Thea on the cheek before continuing, "Always a pleasure, Miss Smoak."

"Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Steele," she responds cordially.  He leaves quickly, and Felicity finds herself alone in the room with Thea again.

This time, Thea appraises her for a moment before saying, "I'm sorry.  I acted like a bitch, and you're just trying to do something nice for my brother."  She sighs.  "It's just that most women that spend time with my brother are out for themselves, so I tend to jump to conclusions."  Quietly, she adds, "He's been through a lot."

Felicity thinks about that for a moment, murmuring her forgiveness.  Oliver has been through a lot, and that's putting it mildly; God only knows what he faced on that island for the past five years.  She remembers again how difficult it was for him to even sign his name, and she thinks that his re-integration into society is going to be horribly difficult.  No wonder he has been away from the paparazzi and the public eye.  On top of that, she realizes that the Oliver Queen she met was not the same one who made tabloid covers; he was nice to her, and looked incredibly apologetic for the thing with Sara Lance.  Maybe it's going to be even harder for him to integrate back into his family—because the Oliver Queen who left on that boat is clearly not the same one in her office a few weeks ago.

Before any further conversation can develop, Oliver walks in, his eyes narrowing when he sees Thea sitting across from Felicity.  "Hey, Thea?" he asks, and she tilts her ead toward him.  "I think Mom was looking for you.  Why don't you see what she wants?"

Thea's eyes narrow at the obvious dismissal, but she rises from the seat.  "Nice to meet you, Felicity," she says before heading out of the room.

Silence stretches out between her and Oliver, and she feels the need to fill it.  "Mr. Queen," she starts, but then she remembers he doesn't like being called that.  She winces before continuing, "Sorry.  Oliver, I have your laptop ready to go.  I think it meets _all_ of your specifications, but I'd like you to make sure."

He nods briefly.  "Since some of the requirements are a little... _sensitive_ , let's go up to my room."  He suggests it as though he's asking her into the dining room for lunch—casual, impersonal, and completely devoid of any emotion.

She hesitates.  "Are you sure that's okay?  Because, I mean, I don't want to give the wrong impression to everyone and—"

He cuts her off, smiling slightly.  "Felicity," he says in a tone that says so much in one single word.  Stepping closer, he continues, "It's better not to do this in the open."

She realizes the logic of his statement and relents, sighing.  "Fine," she says tiredly.  She curses herself for being such a sucker for a pretty face; he's nothing but exhausting, and she doesn't know how anyone tolerates him on a daily basis, much less _lives_ with him.

He leads her up the elaborate staircase and down a series of winding halls she will never be able to find her way out of.  "Are you sure this doesn't eventually lead to the city of Omashu?" she blurts, and then realizes Oliver probably won't have a clue what she's talking about.

He continues walking, but he turns to look at her for a moment.  She's not disappointed when he frowns, eyes narrowed in confusion as he asks, "Leads to _where?_ "

Felicity groans.  "Never mind," she assures him quickly, coloring at her own stupidity.

He stops this time.  "I'd like to know," he says quietly, trying to smile even though it doesn't reach his eyes.  "No one makes references to television or movies around me anymore."  He doesn't add anything else, but he doesn't have to:  it's clear his family doesn't want to upset him about the missing five years of his life.

Always a sucker for a sad face, Felicity answers, sighing, "It's from a TV show called Avatar," she answers finally.  He starts walking again as she adds, "And it has nothing to do with the James Cameron movie with blue people that is also amazing.  But M. Night Shyamalan did make a movie out of it."  She clears her head by shaking it.  "Anyway, there's an episode in season two—called "The Cave of Two Lovers"—where they're trying to get into a city called Omashu, and the main characters go through a series of tunnels that keep changing.  Like a living maze, which is what your house is starting to remind me of."  She stops babbling as they get to the door, and she can see just a hint of a smile on his face.

He opens the door and ushers her in, and as she takes in the opulence of the room, she mutters, "I keep thinking I'll see a miniature giraffe around here."  It earns her a questioning glance from Oliver, but she ignores it as she takes in the room and he shuts the door.  It's such an impersonal space; it wouldn't surprise her if he didn't spend much time here.  "Where should I set up?" she asks casually, trying to pretend she's in just another office and not Oliver Queen's bedroom.

Oliver waves a hand toward a nice mahogany desk that _definitely_ didn't come from an Ikea.  "Over here will be fine," he says, before attempting to clear a '90s model monitor off the top.

Felicity stops him.  "No," she says a little loud, startling him, and she winces.  She tries again, "No, that's all right—I can disassemble that old system."  She's about to say more but she stops, biting her lip.

Oliver offers her a tentative smile as he coaxes her.  "And?"

" _And_ ," Felicity continues as prompted, "if you don't have use for the old computer and monitor, I can maybe re-purpose them for parts."  With a self-conscious hand gesture, she finally adds, "I have a few side projects going."

"Go ahead and take them, then," he assures her.  "I'll just throw them out, anyway."  As she attempts to shut down the still-running computer, he changes the subject.   "That reminds me—we still haven't discussed your fee."

She's confused for a moment, but then she realizes that the Queen family is used to flashing money to get things done.  "I'll have everything up as soon as I can," she assures him.  "The old one might be a little stubborn to move out of here, but setting up the laptop shouldn't take too long."

To her surprise, he shakes his head.  "No, how much money do I owe you for your labor?"

She shakes her head.  "Nothing," is her response.  "You paid for the parts, and an IT nerd playing with computer parts is a happy IT nerd.  No charge necessary."  Since the computer is shut down, she unplugs the CPU and the monitor from the wall socket before crawling under the desk to untangle wires and devices.

She's surprised when she sees Oliver sink to his knees on the other side of the desk.  "How can I help?" he asks, and Felicity has to admit that the sight of Oliver on the floor in a pair of jeans that cost more than she makes in a month, frowning adorably at the clutter of wires, is a sight to behold.

She directs him to the monitor hookups, and they work their way through the wiring together.  Felicity neatly gathers the cables, the tower, and the monitors in the corner of the room for now.  "Thanks for that," she says, but he doesn't respond because he's interrupted by the knock on the door.

"Come in," he says instead, as Felicity sits the laptop on the desk.  For her benefit, he adds, "That would be Mr. Diggle, my bodyguard."  It seems a little insane; the world Felicity has stepped into is clearly not the one she's used to.  Here, there are maids and bodyguards and chauffeurs—and apparently stretch limos and lowly IT girls who are forced to do favors for no pay.

The man that walks in sports a shaved head and a nice suit, standing like a soldier.  He's built like one, too, because his arms look like they belong to the Hulk, not an average guy who offers her a very nice smile.  "Mr. Queen," he says, with no preamble, speaking softly for such a big man, "the police are downstairs, and they want to talk to you."  Meaningfully, he adds, "Detective Lance is with them."

Felicity stops Oliver from speaking.  "Oh, well," she says awkwardly, "that sounds like my cue to leave.  If it's okay, Oliver, I'll pick up that computer later."  She shudders.  "I do not want to get involved with Bad-Cop-Worse-Cop down there ever again."  She pats his shoulder, but winces when he tenses at the contact.  "Good luck, Oliver."

He leads the three of them out of the room and down the stairs to the entrance hall, to where they see Detective Lance standing, handcuffs already out.  Whatever is going on now, Felicity knows it can't be good, and it's only going to have one conclusion.  She just feels sorry for Oliver, because, whatever is happening, she has a feeling he didn't exactly ask for the entire situation.

Oliver seems to have come to the same conclusion.  Lowly, he says to her, "Felicity, I need you to do me a favor, please."  He pauses before explaining said favor, looking at her as if he expects her to say no.

If he does, he's certainly disappointed.  "All you have to do is name it," Felicity promises him, and she wonders how she can possibly identify any at all with him after meeting him twice.

"I need you to hire an attorney for me."  At the unspoken question in her eyes, he answers, "I know my mother won't listen to me, and I know you will."  Before she can question anything, he takes his copy of the computer specifications out of his shirt pocket.  "I need a pen," he tells her.  When she scrounges one out of her pockets, he hands her a pen and says, "Can you write for me?"  Before she can answer, he dictates, "'I, Oliver Queen, hereby authorize Felicity Smoak to obtain an attorney on my behalf.'"  She thinks he knows a little much about legal jargon for a former playboy billionaire, but of course that comment doesn't escape the confines of her mind.

She wonders where the sudden burst of trust comes from, but she doesn't ask, only doing as he says because there probably isn't time for questions.  After she finishes, she offers him the pen and paper, and he signs slowly before handing it back to her.  "I want you to get Laurel for me," he says lowly before walking toward Lance.  Before she can ask, he's already talking to Lance.  "Detective, you wanted to see me?"

Without preamble, he responds, "Oliver Queen, you're under arrest for suspicion of obstruction of justice, breaking and entering, illegal entry, aggravated assault, assault on a police officer..."  Felicity gasps at the ridiculous charges; she knows they're accusing him of being the Vigilante without really saying it.  She's _met_ the Vigilante, and he is most certainly not _anything_ like Oliver Queen.  The detective cuffs him, and as Oliver faces Felicity's direction, it's clear he sees the concern across her features.  All he does is offer her a small wink, as if to say,  _This will all blow over soon_.  "...Attempted murder," Lance continues as he turns Oliver around, and then he growls in his face, "and murder."  A dark smile lights the cop's face as they lead him out of the house.

Vaguely, Felicity takes notice of the family panicking in the background.  Moira is grasping Walter's arm as though her life depends on it, Thea is crying, and the tall man who just stood on the other side of Oliver—Mr. Diggle, she remembers—is watching her intently.

She turns to him instantly.  "I have no idea what to do," she says finally to him.

He offers a slight, sympathetic smile.  "Try to ride out the storm," he says simply.  "And find that lawyer he wanted."

 

* * *

 

If Felicity thought she was out of place at the Queen mansion, it's nothing compared to how she feels at the City Necessary Resource Initiative building.  CNRI itself isn't all that impressive, but the lawyers parading around are dressed pretty nice for such modest salaries.  Her panda flats certainly do not allow her to blend in here, and her wardrobe is a little too bright and quirky for these people.  Her mission, she decides, is to get in and out as quick as she can.

She finds the woman she's looking for, so she asks, "Laurel Lance?"  The woman whirls, taking in Felicity's appearance with a look of mild curiosity.  "Do you have a moment?"

Laurel offers her a polished smile that Felicity thinks she must have practiced in a mirror for ages—but then she decides she's being a little catty.  She doesn't even _know_ Laurel.  "Sure," the lawyer responds sweetly.  "What can I do for you?"

Felicity shakes her head.  "Not for me," she corrects, then frowns.  "I'm not sure if you've heard yet—about the thing with Oliver Queen?"

Laurel blanches, and the smile drops from her face.  "No," she says in a flat tone, "I haven't."

Because it's clear she's not going to play along, Felicity sighs tiredly.  "They've arrested him because the cops think he's the Vigilante."  Laurel takes in a breath in surprise as Felicity pulls out the signed piece of paper.  "This gives me authorization to hire you as his criminal attorney on his behalf."  She hesitates before saying, "He wanted you—and he was very clear about that."

Laurel takes the piece of paper, examines it, then narrows her eyes at Felicity.  "And who are you?" she asks, and Felicity can hear the _real_ question she wants answered:  _Who are you to Oliver Queen?_

Felicity wants to answer her honestly, but she's not exactly sure what "honest" is in this situation.  Finally, she says, "I'm Felicity Smoak.  I did some computer work for Oliver.  We're friends—sort of."  She tells herself that's the truth, because they must be friends if he considers her trustworthy enough to do this for him.

" _Ollie_ ," she says, emphasizing the nickname as she crosses her arms, "doesn't have female friends."

Felicity bites back a retort—something along the lines of, _Well, there's a first time for everything_ , or the meaner option of, _Maybe that's because I don't throw myself at him like a female cat in heat_.  Instead, she goes with the diplomatic approach, shrugging slightly as she responds, "Like I said, it's hard to explain.  I did some computer stuff, he laughed at my stupidity—that's basically it."  For not the first time, she understands why all of her friends in college were male—it's less complicated that way.  At least boys aren't so catty.

"Fine," she says after a long moment, snapping the word.  "I'd never miss an opportunity to help Ollie."  With that, she turns on her heel and leaves, making Felicity's only option to do the same.


	5. Electronic Repair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity is happy to help the Vigilante, not any random dude in a green suit. She has a one-vigilante rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for Chapter 5! We are so close to 3000 hits it's not even funny. There's a special treat waiting for you when it happens. :) It means a lot to know you all appreciate this. :)
> 
> A lot of you have been crying out for more Diggle, and I think this will fulfill all your needs for the time being. :) Just for tagging purposes, we're still in 1.05 Damaged (one of my all-time favorites), and we will be for the next chapter, too. Anyhow, reviews are much appreciated, if you feel so inclined.
> 
>  **And because of the 2000 hits on this, I've posted "The Last of the Guard."** I think most of you will have read it by now, but I don't think I've noted that yet. Anyway, happy reading! :)

Felicity sits on her couch next to her dog with a Frankenstein computer that she's trying to rebuild, this time watching the detective duo trying to outsmart their rival. She agrees with the rival's assessment that how every fairytale needs a good villain, but then she thinks about the situation in Starling City with the Vigilante. Is he the hero or the criminal? It's a question she's been asking herself for a very long time, and one she can never seem to answer. It bothers her, though, because she believes puzzles are meant to be solved, and the Vigilante is definitely an unsolvable case at this point. She doesn't have enough information yet.

Still, it's a case she can't quite shake completely. She finds herself identifying more and more with the mysterious hooded crusader, and she tells herself he's not exactly the good guy in this scenario. Still, she sees that he's taking down a lot of really horrible human beings, and that comforts her. However, she thinks he could serve a greater good by taking on some of the lesser scum on the street—instead of just the big fish swimming around. But despite the fact that Starling's crime rates are down for the first time in years, she still reminds herself that he _kills people_. Bad people, sure, but people nonetheless, and she should remember that.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she hears the latch on the fire escape attempt to pull open, but it's stopped by the inside-only lock she's placed on it since her last visit by the Vigilante. She pauses the show and heaves a breath, suddenly feeling very put-upon. She's not sure she can handle a double life as a Vigilante's IT specialist, even to solve the puzzle that is the Vigilante. But he's a curiosity in her life, and Felicity doesn't like unsolved cases. With another sigh, she pulls herself off the couch and steps into her bedroom.

Her posture changes instantly when she sees the green hood masking his facial features, but Saphira charges into the room barking loudly. She restrains the dog and hushes her, seeing what the dog also notices, but she opens the door anyway, brandishing the baseball bat. "I want to know what you're doing here and why you're wearing that," she demands with authority she doesn't feel. Her voice doesn't quaver, though, so that is something.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, but, even synthesized, the timbre of his voice is off, and it serves to confirm what she already believed to be true. He steps into the room, but she holds the baseball bat as if her life depends on it. She thinks for a moment how long it would take her to go for her phone in the meantime.

She rolls her eyes, putting one hand on her hip. "I may be blonde," she informs him, "but I'm not _that_ blonde. I'm talking about the fact that you aren't the Vigilante," she says flatly, "but I think you already knew that. You gave it a good go—and you could probably fool anyone else, but not me. You're taller than he is, a little more muscular, and Saphira is going nuts when she made friends with the Vigilante last time. Should I call the cops now because you're a psycho copycat, or are you here on his behalf?"

A distorted chuckle answers, but Felicity doesn't understand what's so funny. "He said you'd know the difference," the not-Vigilante responds, seemingly amused. "He also told me that, when you did, to tell you he hasn't forgotten about that printer he owes you for the last time."

The tension leaves her body instantly, and the baseball bat falls against the wall. She decides to trust him, if only because of the statement that could only have come from the Vigilante himself. "Come in here, and we'll talk about it," she says, giving herself an odd sense of déjà vu. It was only a few weeks ago that he—the _true_ Vigilante, she supposes—was standing in her bedroom and walking into her living area. They have to stop meeting like this.

He follows her into the living area, but he doesn't observe his surroundings the way his predecessor did, instead only focusing on her. "Tell me why you're here," she demands, still suspicious as she eyes him warily. He might have enough trust to parade around in another guy's green hood, but that doesn't mean she trusts him enough to be in her apartment. She thinks it's probably crazy that she's more comfortable with the Vigilante, but she knows that he, at least, isn't going to hurt her; he's had several opportunities, but each time she walks away unscathed. This guy, on the other hand, is a wild card.

"We seem to have a problem," he says carefully, before holding out a small, black electronic device. "I'm supposed to use these bugs tonight, but they're not working. Our friend said that you might be able to fix these?" It's a question, and she feels insulted by it. Of _course_ she's able to fix whatever problems they're having—she does this for a living. She wants to remind him of how awesome she is, but she doesn't think this is the time, despite how true her words would be.

She means to reach for the bugs, but she can't bring herself to do it. The not-Vigilante seems to understand, and carefully places them on the coffee table. When he steps back, she surges forward and grabs them, looking them over methodically. When she completes her assessment, she scoffs, "What did you do—get these from VH1?" She holds them up. "Because these are best of the eighties, my friend." She sighs at the lack of respect technology seems to get when the Vigilante is involved. "You know, the least you could do is pop for decent bugging equipment."

The not-Vigilante ignores her griping and asks the right question: "Can you provide us with some better equipment?" He says it quickly, as if it's imperative that he gets them this moment. Either that, or he wants to shut her up and be gone quickly, which Felicity figures to be a distinct possibility.

Felicity frowns. "I'm sure I could," she says finally, "but I don't really have the equipment here. I also don't carry bugging devices with me wherever I go. This might sound crazy to you, but, in case you haven't heard, illegal eavesdropping is _illegal_." She crosses her arms for emphasis. Even as she tells him that it's illegal, the logical part of her brain is already constructing blueprints for the Vigilante team to use on their nightly excursions. Then she wonders when she became such a criminal mastermind, and the moral part of her brain chides her for it.

He takes her outburst in stride. "Is there any way you could build anything better tonight? I have to have these planted by midnight." As soon as he says it, she glances up at the clock. Eight-thirty. That means she has about two hours to get everything together—an impossible task for most. But Felicity is _not_ most.

Instead of telling him he's out of luck, she instead examines the bug again before saying, "I think I can make these work for tonight with what I have here at the house, but next time? Tell our friend that he needs to give me a little advance warning. I can make these from scratch, but I have to have the equipment at QC to do it."

Without waiting for an answer, Felicity starts in on the conversion, swapping wires around here and there. The final product is just as bulky as the original, but she's proud of the end result. She admires the refined battery and the circuit rewired for optimal performance, but she figures it's the best she can do with the original product. After all, she concludes finally, she's an IT specialist, not a miracle worker.

The not-Vigilante seems just as satisfied as she does. He doesn't praise her, only offering, "He said you were good." The tone in his voice is different—something between amusement, surprise, and awe.

An odd burst of pride flows through Felicity, though she's not sure she should be proud of her wiretap-fixing skills. She replies instantly, "He said I was good? That's just insulting—I'm better than that." She makes sure to smile so she doesn't come off as bragging; it was just a joke, and her confidence in her skill set is something that most people don't quite understand. Felicity reaches out to hand her creations to him, but then changes her mind. "Do I _want_ to know what you plan to use these babies for?"

She doesn't expect an answer, but she gets one anyway. "We're trying to stop some gunrunners," is the swift reply, and she marvels at the efficiency of the statement. Just enough information to keep her curiosity satisfied, but not enough to get her into trouble if they're caught. That sort of efficiency makes her think he might be military or ex-military, but she keeps the observation to herself. She's not sure what they'd do if they thought she knew anything about them. She quickly promises herself that she won't look into it, but she knows that it's just a lie.

Felicity nods. "Glad to see he's going after someone besides rich billionaires. There's a lot of crime on Starling's streets, and he could definitely make a difference there." She crosses her arms. "So, which one of you is _the_ Vigilante? Or is it a position you share?"

Another chuckle answers her, and she thinks he's probably not so intimidating as the first Vigilante. "He's the Vigilante," is his answer. "I'm just filling in for the night."

She scoffs at the phrasing of his answer. "You're filling in? What, like a relief vigilante? How do you phrase _that_ on your résumé?" It comes off a little sarcastic, but she's genuinely curious.

The fake Vigilante doesn't answer this time, instead holds his hand out for the electronic devices she's repaired for the crime-fighting duo. Felicity silently drops them into his gloved hand, uncertain of what else she can say. She wants to tell him—to tell them _both_ —to be careful, but she's sure that will come of as condescending. So she just crosses her arms as she watches him study her.

Finally, when she can't take the attention any longer, she walks toward her bedroom, saying over her shoulder, "I'll let you out." She doesn't hear him follow, but when she turns, he's on her heels.

He motions to the lock on her door. "He told me to remind you about that," he says quietly, an odd appraising tone entering his voice. "I'm glad I can tell him some good news."

Felicity rolls her eyes. "Well, I may not be a super-skilled vigilante by night," she snaps, not liking this protectiveness from both of them, "but I _can_ take care of myself, you know."

The man under the hood chuckles once more. "I'm sure you can," he replies, humoring her nicely, but Felicity thinks this might be worse than the overprotectiveness she's seen in the past. "Goodnight, Felicity."

Before she can respond to him, he's gone, leaving her to wonder why she decided to help the Vigilante in the first place.

 

* * *

 

When John Diggle walks into the Queen mansion, he's yet again reminded by the surreal nature that is now firmly entrenched in his life. He makes his way up the stairs and through the hallways to Oliver Queen's room, he knocks three times on the door, rolling his eyes. Oliver has made it clear he expects knocking to be a part of their arrangement; Diggle doesn't quite understand why—they're in this... whatever-the-hell-it-is together.

While he waits to be allowed entry, he thinks back on his encounter with Felicity Smoak, the girl who has apparently become their resident IT expert. He wasn't quite expecting the fire in her eyes—or the genuine smile on Oliver's face when he told Diggle about the printer and that she'd know the difference. For not the first time since he started bodyguarding Queen, he feels like he doesn't quite have the full picture.

"Come in," Oliver responds finally, and Diggle lets himself into the impersonal room that Oliver has yet to customize to the person he is, shutting the door behind him. But then Diggle thinks that this room _does_ reflect Oliver—it's clearly just a space to him, with no personality whatsoever. His _real_ life exists in the basement of the old Queen factory, not here.

Oliver looks up from his computer—a very nice one, which Diggle knows is also courtesy of Felicity Smoak. "How did it go?" Oliver asks flatly, watching Diggle again with those critical eyes.

Diggle crosses his arms as he looks at Oliver. "She fixed the busted lock over the fire escape. And she knew it wasn't you, just like you said, but she was willing to help me anyway, albeit a little reluctantly."

Oliver's eyes narrow immediately, his shoulders tensing as if for a fight, and Diggle marvels at how the mere mention IT girl can provoke emotion out of the stoic, reformed playboy. "What do you mean, ' _reluctantly_ '?" he demands, his tone turning dark. There's an odd ferocity and protectiveness in his voice, one befitting a jealous lover. Under normal circumstances, Diggle might decide to reiterate this fact aloud, but Oliver isn't teasing now, and Diggle is all too aware which one of them would win in a fight—and he's certain Oliver would gladly come to blows over Felicity Smoak

Diggle holds up his hands in a calming gesture. "Nothing happened," he assures the younger man. "She didn't trust me because she knew I wasn't you—even after I mentioned the printer. That was the only reason she agreed to help me." He raises an eyebrow, daring Oliver to interrupt him again, but the younger man remains quiet. "She wasn't able to build a new bug, but she did repair the ones we had. She told me to tell you that you need to give her better notice next time, and she can hook you up with some better technology." He chuckles at the memory. "She says our stuff was best of the eighties."

Oliver actually smiles at that, so Diggle thinks it's time to ask the question he's been wanting to know the answer to since Oliver first mentioned Felicity. "Oliver, what exactly is this girl to you?"

The smile falls immediately, and Oliver's eyes narrow again. "That's not your concern," he says flatly. A long moment of silent, testosterone-fueled glowering continues between them for a long moment, but when Oliver sees that Diggle isn't going to give up that easily, he finally adds with a sigh, "She's just a resourceful computer technician I stumbled onto one night as the Vigilante. She offered to help me, and I accepted."

With one eyebrow lifted in skepticism, Diggle dares ask, "And she doesn't know who you are?"

Oliver gives him that smile that says, _I'm humoring you_ this time _, but don't expect it to happen again_. "She doesn't know the Arrow's identity," he phrases carefully. "She's met the Arrow and Oliver Queen separately, but she has nothing to connect the two."

Diggle frowns. "You know how weird it is that you refer to yourself in the third person, right?"

Oliver tries to hide a smile while pretending to ignore Diggle. After a moment, he says, "It's better for her not to know."

"It's better for her not to get involved," Diggle corrects. "She's a civilian with no training whatsoever. Her looking cute in a skirt isn't exactly the kind of skill we're looking for here." He admits he might be exaggerating slightly, since she's so handy with the electronic equipment, but the hyperbole serves to make his point quite nicely.

Oliver's tone turns dangerously protective and threating as he says, "We can protect her. That's why I can't tell her my name, Digg. If anyone thinks she knows who the Vigilante is, they would use her for leverage." He doesn't talk about _how_ they would hurt her for information; Digg has seen enough of that to know what happens to captured prisoners.

Still, he acts as the voice of reason. "What about Detective Lance—the one who arrested you for being the Vigilante?"

Oliver fixes piercing eyes on Diggle, his expression unreadable as always. "I told him as the Arrow she wasn't involved. For now, Lance is perfectly happy to have me prosecuted for murder and to leave Felicity alone." He draws himself up taller in his seat, and Diggle can already sense the subject change that's coming. "Which is why I need you to follow those wiretaps. In a few days, I'm having a party here at the house. I need you to intercept an arms deal as the Arrow." He tilts his head to the side before asking, "You think you're up to it?"

Diggle knows Oliver is trying to light a fire under his pride, so he simply ignores that part of the conversation and focuses on the more important part. "You set this up," he accuses angrily, the feeling of being played leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "You _wanted_ to get caught, so that I could step in and pretend to be you while you're under house arrest." He takes a moment to examine the brilliant plan, and he has to admit, "You got caught so that the legal system itself could provide you with an iron-clad alibi. No one will protest that."

A smirk graces Oliver's face as he admits, "Exactly. Lance only wanted Felicity as means to a greater goal—me. And now she's off the hook because I've been arrested. But if I convince Lance he's barking up the wrong tree about this, it might be enough for him to doubt his judgment about Felicity." He sighs. "If not, we'll have to find a way to cover for her."

Then he says the words that prove he's no longer the selfish billionaire they expect him to be: "She's our responsibility now, Diggle, and we have to keep her safe."


	6. Old Hardware Removal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity is _supposed_ to be picking up old computer parts, not giving solid life advice to billionaires. And if you think that's interesting, wait until you read the _rest_ of the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter of Technical Assistance I've written thus far. It's my longest, too, at just over 4500 words. It was a bear to write, but I'm through it now. Also, there is a side story for this chapter, but I need about 500 more hits before that gets posted. I'm going to let you get to it, though--happy reading! Reviews/comments are appreciated, if you have the time. :)
> 
> Also, this next week I'm probably going to be pretty much unreachable. Finals week. If you're waiting for a response from me, I promise it's coming. If you comment/review, I promise I'm not ignoring you--just incredibly busy. I'm sure all of you college students out there know that life shuts down for finals week, and all that's left is testing. :P

Felicity has to take a breath to steel herself as she walks into the Queen mansion, even for the second time, and she still thinks she's not good enough for this place. There's more money on the walls than she'll ever see in her life, and it's terrifying to be as klutzy as she is knowing there's a Ming Dynasty vase on display behind her. She waits in the entry hall because she isn't really sure where to go; the walk back to Oliver's room was a labyrinth, and there's no way she's going to attempt _that_ journey on her own.

It doesn't help that there's such a crowd in the lobby, what with the party going on and all. But still, this is when Oliver told her to come pick up his old computer for parts, and she needed to get away from work before she went insane anyway. She'd be grateful for the interruption otherwise, but she never feels in place at the Queen mansion.

A familiar face from the tabloids comes up to her, dripping swagger, charm, and the promise of mischief. With his dark hair and eyes, Tommy Merlyn is even more attractive than the media makes him out to be, and she can understand now why there are so many rumors about his womanizing; there is just something innate about him that draws in the opposite sex—something that can't be explained by good looks or old money.

"You look a little lost," he says, but not in a way that indicates she doesn't need to be here. "Can I get you something to drink?"

Felicity shakes her head. "No, thank you, Mr. Merlyn," she offers, trying to be as professional as possible, since the last thing she wants is Tommy Merlyn flirting with her. "I was to pick up some old computer parts from Ol—Mr. Queen." She catches the slip that will give her away as being on more casual ground with Oliver. She realizes that she hasn't introduced herself. "I'm Felicity Smoak." By way of explanation for her presence, she says, "I'm in the IT Department at Queen Consolidated."

Tommy smiles knowingly—the little flirt—at her slip-up, catching it despite her best efforts. "Figures," he says with a laugh. "He always did know how to pick them." He appraises her in a way that makes her entire face burn. "They're always beautiful, but brainy, too? That's new." When she doesn't rise to the bait, he offers finally, "He's upstairs in his room, I think—had something to talk about with Laurel, his lawyer." She sees the shadow that crosses his face with that statement, and she wonders quietly if Tommy has some serious unrequited feelings for Laurel. At her blank look, he chuckles and asks, "Need a tour guide?" He offers his arm in a way she hopes is teasing.

She sighs before admitting defeat. "I think so," she admits sadly. "I've been through the upper floor once already, but something tells me it's going to take more than one attempt."

Tommy laughs at her voiced thoughts as he heads up the stairs, Felicity at his side. "I think so," he agrees. "This house was built over a few generations as land was purchased and graded, so it's a little winding in places. I think maze is the nice way of putting it."

"I'm still expecting to find angel statues and an Aplan temple up above us," she agrees, but then turns crimson as she realizes what she's said—and to _Tommy Merlyn_ , of all people. If she ever had "cool" status, it would have been revoked for this moment alone.

He shoots her a puzzling glance, slowing in walking pace. " _What?_ " he asks after a long moment, smiling a little as he takes in her reaction.

Felicity hides her now-red face with her hands for a moment before trying to salvage it. "You know, a maze of the dead?" she tries nonchalantly. "Three levels of statuary and maze-like passageways. It's—" She cuts herself off. "And I'm trying to pretend I'm not a nerd, but I'm only making it worse."

Tommy chuckles. "Do you do this all the time?" he asks. "And does anyone ever understand?"

Felicity sighs. "Yes and yes, unfortunately," she responds, waving her hands around a little. "It's how I communicate—I don't understand why. And my fellow IT gremlins in the Satan Pit—that's what I call the IT department—always know what I'm talking about." She huffs. "It's not as much fun with you... _normal_ people, though. Oliver has a perfectly reasonable excuse, but there's no plausible reason why you _wouldn't_ have caught that."

He stops short at something she says, and she actually has to turn back to look at him. Tommy's eyes are wide, the playful smile falling off his face. "You actually make pop culture references around _Oliver?_ " he asks, as though it's supposed to be surprising.

"All the time," she assures him, not understanding the point. "He told me he doesn't mind, even if he doesn't know what I'm talking about." Then she remembers what he said to her the last time they met. "I know you've known Oliver all of your life and everything, but can I offer a little advice?" Tommy nods mutely, smiling a little, and she takes that as permission to say, "I think he probably misses the normalcy that is pop culture references. He doesn't really seem all that shy about _hinting_ at the island—just so long as you don't ask him about it."

Tommy surges forward again, smiling that playful smile she's come to expect. "Thanks for the advice," he answers, and Felicity thinks she might have just made a friend—albeit reluctantly—in Tommy Merlyn.

His phone rings abruptly, effectively ending the conversation. He looks down at the screen for a moment before frowning and saying, "Sorry, Smoaky," he says with a wink as Felicity wonders when she earned the nickname, "but I've got to take this." He points to a room two doors down on the left. "Oliver should be in there, but, if I were you, I'd knock first. He's a little touchy about that these days." Before she can respond, he's halfway down the hall, speaking in hushed tones to his caller.

Felicity walks up to the door, but she can hear soft conversation beyond, so she instead waits for them to finish. She studies a Degàs on the wall for a long moment, taking in its beautiful hues. She's always loved art, but she never thought she'd see an original master on the wall anywhere but a museum.

Without warning, the door to Oliver's room flies open, and Laurel walks out in a hurry with a dazed, fearful look on her face. She doesn't even acknowledge Felicity in her flight, walking down the halls in a huff. Behind her, Oliver calls out in a broken voice that hurts Felicity's heart, "Laurel, you don't have to go!" Even that doesn't stop Laurel, though; she just keeps moving.

Felicity stands in the hallway for an awkward moment, not knowing if she should approach Oliver yet or not. Clearly something has transpired here between the two of them, and she's not sure if she should intrude. But then she decides that it would be more suspicious to be discovered in the hallway, so she musters up her courage and knocks on the door frame.

Oliver smiles slightly when he sees her, but his eyes still make him look like someone shot his dog. "Hey, Felicity," he says quietly, casually. "Thanks for showing up. I would have brought those computers to you, but I happen to be under house arrest right now." He rolls his eyes in typical playboy fashion—but at least this time it's not an act. "Thank you for hiring Laurel for me—I think I'm going to need her, since they've accused me of being the Vigilante."

Felicity scoffs before rolling her own eyes. "No problem," she assures him. "I just hope they clear up this misunderstanding before somebody catches Detective Lance with egg on his face. If it makes you feel any better, I know they have the wrong guy." It's not an understatement; Felicity has encountered the Vigilante on multiple occasions now, and Oliver Queen is the _last_ person in the world who could be the man under the green hood.

Oliver smiles, but it's forced again. "Thanks for the vote of confidence. Laurel said almost the same thing, so I think we can win the case—even if it _does_ go to court."

The whipped-puppy look on Oliver's face at the mention of Laurel hurts Felicity's heart. She means to say something inspiring, something kind and wise that might ease his pain. Instead, though, she somehow ends up blurting, "I can always come back, if you need me to... for whatever reason."

Oliver's eyes narrow before understanding flickers across his face. He sighs sadly as he falls onto his cushy little sofa as though all the energy has suddenly been drained from him. "How much did you hear?" he asks after a long moment.

Felicity sighs before doing that awkward laugh she can't quite help. "Enough to know you probably don't want to see me standing here right now," she admits slowly.

She's just about to turn on her heel to leave when he says, seeming at a loss for words, "No, please." A sigh, then finally, "I'd like you to stay. Could you shut the door, please?"

Felicity hesitates, but she doesn't say no and she does as he asks. She honestly has no idea what to say; refusing Oliver when he's had enough disappointment is too much for her, and she doesn't want to seem insensitive by carting computers around while he's in a talkative mood. He seems to understand her hesitance, and he motions to the cushion next to him. She obliges him by sitting down.

It's a long time before they exchange words, but Oliver is the first to start the conversation. His words are slow, hesitant, as he offers, "I had this fantasy in my head, of how life would be after I finally got back." He interrupts himself with a breathy laugh that has no humor to it at all. "I thought it would be easy to come back because I dreamed about it all the time. I had it in my head that I would come back, be part of this happy family, and..." he hesitates before finally confessing, "patch things up with Laurel."

Felicity still doesn't think he's ready for her to speak, so she lets him continue. "Sometimes that was all I thought about on the island—all that kept me going—was knowing that I _had_ to set things right with Laurel. I know she hates me—and I don't blame her—but I feel like I have to find some way to earn her forgiveness."

This time, when he pauses, he looks at Felicity expectantly, anticipating an answer. She points to herself as she asks, "You want _my_ opinion on this? Are you sure? Because you might not like what I have to say." She considers it fair to warn him before tearing him apart. Oliver's eyebrows knit together, as if he's bracing himself for the onslaught, before he nods once in affirmation.

Felicity draws a long breath. "I think you're right," she starts slowly, gaining speed as she goes, "I think those thoughts on the island _were_ a fantasy. Of course your family isn't happy right now. You're mourning the loss of your father, all the while trying to adjust to life at home again—with a new stepfather. Your family is trying to adjust to the miracle of having a loved one returned to them long after they thought you were dead. It's going to be like starting all over again. As for Laurel, though..." She takes a deep breath as Oliver looks at her expectantly again. "Laurel's angry because two people she loved betrayed her. Sara was a grown woman and she _chose_ to step on that boat, Oliver—so don't let her convince you that you're responsible for her death. Laurel, though, deserves the right to be pissed because you cheated on her, but that's it. Of course, nothing's that simple. You survived, Sara died, and now it's easier to blame you."

Felicity breaks into the part of her speech that she believes to be the most important part of the conversation. "But you can't fix any of that. In my opinion—which is awesome, by the way..." She has to stop because the wide smile on Oliver's face is so blinding that it causes her to lose all coherent thought. A moment later, she continues, "In my obviously-not-humble opinion, what you have to do now is figure out _why_ you're so intent upon fixing things with Laurel. If it's because you love her and she's that elusive 'one' everybody talks about, then you should do whatever it takes to make things up with her. Because it's the worst thing in the world to live your life and realize that the person by your side isn't the one you want to see next to you. If not, though, you should say your peace, tell her what a mistake you made. And, well, if she doesn't forgive you, you have to find a way to deal with that. And if she's toxic—either because you love her or because you've used her as your coping mechanism for the past five years—you need to run as fast as you can in the opposite direction."

Oliver smiles after a very long moment. "When did I get such a wise friend?" he muses aloud, and even though Felicity knows it's flattery, she can't stop the warm feeling from spreading.

She covers it with a scoff. "Please," she remarks dryly, "Tommy is _not_ a wise friend. He's more interested in chasing skirts than giving good, solid life advice."

Oliver's eyes flicker with recognition and something else Felicity can't place—something primal and decidedly male. "You met Tommy?" he asks in a dangerously low tone.

She opens her mouth to answer, but she's interrupted by a knock at the door. "Mr. Queen?" a light, male voice asks from the other side. "Are you entertaining up here? Can I bring you anything to drink?"

Oliver winces before rising from his seat in a single fluid moment. "Hold that thought," he says playfully to Felicity, before going to the door. Before he even opens it, he starts in, "Thank you, but I'm—" He opens the door then, but stops talking. Felicity can barely see the gun before Oliver somehow manages to fling it out of the other man's hand. The fall to the ground then, and she can't quite see everything from where she's now standing in front of the couch.

She vaguely thinks she should call a cop, but before she can turn the thought into action, the intruder manages to grab the gun again, and a shot goes off that just barely misses her head. Felicity reacts by ducking, and she actually gets to see Oliver fight. If her life weren't in danger, she'd be impressed; the other guy is skilled, sure, but Oliver might be better. Oliver does some sort of ninja-like pressure point thing, and the guy drops the gun. Oliver slides it across the hardwood floor, where it lands at Felicity's feet.

Thinking fast, she slides the gun under the couch, where the intruder can't see it, and then grabs her cell phone to call the cops. After she manages to get the phone in hand, she hears a strangled cry, and she sees that the guy has Oliver in some sort of hold, and that he's losing. Felicity sees the old computer parts sitting in front of Oliver's desk, about five feet to her left, so she grabs the keyboard—which, she vaguely notes, has the wrong connector anyway—and throws it in the general direction of the bad guy's head. Somehow, it strikes home, and he groans and rolls to his right as keys fly everywhere.

He rolls toward the couch, to where the gun is, so of course he sees it. Felicity looks over to see Oliver gasping for breath, blinking profusely as he comes out of the near blackout—so of course he's no help to her as the killer advances toward her. She thinks he's probably going after her out of spite now; after all, _no one_ wants to report to their boss that they were hit in the head with a keyboard by some random blonde girl.

She throws the mouse at him then, and he groans as it hits him in the eye. She turns back to the stack of computer parts and realizes she's out of things to throw; the old monitor probably weights a solid thirty pounds and the tower more. Instead, she dances around the couch, about to give into that primal flight instinct, when she sees Oliver still lying there. She figures she wouldn't be able to drag him; Oliver is about twice her size, and she's not that strong. She isn't going to leave him, she decides firmly.

Her moment of indecision costs her, though, as the now angry man snatches her up by her ponytail, holding his gun at her temple, point-blank. "You, I'll kill for free," he snarls in a raspy voice that indicates a love of cigarettes stemming from youth.

When the shot rings out, it's foreshadowed by a slamming sound, and it's not from the direction Felicity expects. The pressure on her ponytail eases, and something wet splatters across one side of her face. It's only when she sees the red on her glasses that she understands what it is, and she doesn't dare look behind her. Instead, she focuses her attention on the door, and she doesn't think she's ever been so glad to see Detective Lance in her life.

"You okay, kid?" he asks her, his breathing accelerated from adrenaline.

Felicity is breathless because of the cold suddenly rushing through her, but manages to nod. Then Oliver's hand is on her shoulder, and he's offering her a smile, even as the bruises are starting to appear around his throat. "I think we should sit down," he offers carefully, quietly, and then he leads her toward his _bed_ , of all places, but away from the desk, couch, and events that just transpired.

Felicity is too numb to really understand what is happening, but Oliver disappears for a moment, but then he returns with a white cloth, sitting down beside her. He turns to the detective. "Is it okay if I...?" he makes a general gesture that Lance seems to understand because he nods.

Carefully, as though she's made of glass or paper or something much more delicate, Oliver reaches for her chin, turning her head away from him so that he can wipe the blood from her face. He doesn't talk to her, doesn't ask any questions, but just gives her time to gather her thoughts as he rubs all the spatter away. She wonders at first why he's so kind and calm, but then it dawns on her through the fog that he's probably seen things like this before on the island—if not worse.

When he stops, she says, "Thank you," in a very thick voice. She convinces herself she is _not_ going to cry or break down, but her voice does tremble as it comes out. "Why am I cold?" she wonders, but then realizes the words actually left her mouth.

Oliver offers her a tentative half-smile, one corner of his mouth starting to reach up. "You're in shock," he explains in that same tone. "It's perfectly normal." He offers her a different cloth than the one he just used, as if the sight of blood again will cause her to go to pieces. "Do you want to wipe off your glasses?"

She snatches it out of his hand. "While I appreciate your concern," she snaps at him, a little embarrassed that she's the only one in the room who isn't calm, "I'm not going to fall apart." She rubs her glasses a little too hard.

Her vision is a little blurry, but she thinks she can see Oliver hold up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I didn't think you were," is his only response, but his tone makes her think that he might be smirking.

When she puts her glasses back on, she can see Detective Lance leaning against the wall, watching the two of them interact. Felicity flushes a little as she realizes how misleading the moment might have been. Lance just crosses his arms and asks the million dollar question of the night: "Anyone want to tell me what the hell just happened?"

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance takes a long moment to study Queen and the Smoak girl as they both sit on a sofa in the Queens' den. Felicity looks a little tired, and she sits on the opposite end of the sofa from Queen, which is probably the farthest place in the room from him. Mrs. Queen and Mr. Steele stand off to one side, observing the events, and the Queen girl sits between them, holding her brother's hand—more for her benefit than his, if you ask Lance.

He thinks it's interesting how Queen and Felicity are so far apart now, when just a few minutes ago, Queen practically had her in his lap as he cleaned some of the spatter off of her face. Her clothes still bear a spot or two of red—as does her hair—but she actually seems okay now. Lance didn't really get the chance to watch them together the last time, and he thinks that, for two people who didn't know each other a few weeks ago, they seemed _awfully_ cozy. He also can't say he didn't get a vindictive kick out of watching her snap at him for being delicate—a word Lance wouldn't ever have associated with Oliver Queen before today.

"Thank you, Detective," the Queen kid says in a tone that actually sounds sincere for a change. Lance doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker over to Felicity for the briefest of moments. "How did you know we were in trouble?"

Lance snorts at the strange twist events have taken. "I didn't," he replies quickly. "They lost the signal for your tracker." He points down at the kid's ankle device, the plastic box battered from the fight. "I thought you were trying to make a run for it. Mind filling me in?"

"I really don't know what happened," Queen admits slowly. "I opened the door, and some guy with a gun tries to shoot me. I guess I knocked the gun out of his hand, and he attacked me. We fought, and then he was able to strangle me." He squints, assessing Felicity as if to confirm it. "I'm a little blurry after that," he says, more to Felicity than to Lance.

She takes up the conversation with no hesitation whatsoever, as though she's just expected to speak now. "Well, I scurried back out of the way and was going to call the cops, but then I saw... _him_ trying to choke Oliver, and—" She stops, turning crimson, before continuing awkwardly, "Well, there was an old computer sitting on the floor—which I was supposed to get tonight, by the way—and I picked up the keyboard and threw it at him." By the end, her voice takes on a high pitch, and her eyes widen as if she can't believe her own actions.

Lance is surprised to hear Queen chuckle. "Of course you did," he says sarcastically, voice coated with amusement, "because anyone else would have tried to run."

She huffs, crossing her arms angrily. "Last time I save your life, buster," she snaps at him, and Queen just continues to look at her with that half-smile on his face. She turns back to Lance before continuing, "Anyway, keys flew everywhere—it was a huge mess." She turns back to Oliver. "Sorry about that, by the way." Before he can respond, she's back to her story, but the alternating is starting to give Lance a headache. "I think it ticked him off, so he decided to forget Oliver and come after me." It's the first time Lance notices that she addresses the heir to a billion-dollar corporation by his first name. "I threw the mouse at him next, and I think he'd have a really nice black eye right about now—you know, if he wasn't dead." She says it so casually, as though ten minutes ago she wasn't going through shock. "I was about to run for it, but then I saw that Oliver was alive, and I just couldn't—" Her voice breaks on the last word, and she stops talking instantly. Instead of continuing, she just says, "You know the rest, I guess."

Lance does know the rest, but what he doesn't know is what's happening between Queen and this pretty, innocent girl in front of him. Queen leans around his sister, smiling at the girl. "Hey, Felicity?" he calls, getting her attention immediately. "Thank you."

She just nods before standing up far too quickly, stumbling a little. Queen is on his feet instantly. "You okay?" is his question this time, to which she nods shortly, eyes narrowing.

Before they can start another round of bickering, Lance clears his throat. "Ankle, Queen," he demands abruptly, and Queen obliges. Lance unlocks the ankle monitor efficiently, and, by way of explanation, offers, "The Vigilante was spotted stopping a weapons deal across town twenty minutes ago." He watches all of them as he delivers the news; he finds Queen to be pretty unsurprised by the whole ordeal—which agrees with him being innocent—but he doesn't miss the flicker of comprehension in Felicity's eyes. His intuition sparks; she's in on whatever is happening in this city, and he needs to find out what. But carefully—the Vigilante did threaten her life, after all. Though it pains him to say it, Lance does finish with, "You're free to go."

He murmurs thanks and Felicity offers her congratulations. Oliver turns to her immediately, ignoring his family. "I'll take you home," he offers quietly. She starts to argue, but he cuts her off with, "I need to do this." She stops arguing instantly, just nodding once. Oliver ushers her out into the hallway, and it's the last thing Lance sees of them for the night. It does get him thinking, though. Maybe he was wrong about Oliver Queen after all.

But then he shakes his head, and thinks he might be going soft in his old age. The man's a killer, and Lance _will_ see him behind bars.


	7. Person Location Services

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and the Vigilante come to an understanding about one Oliver Queen. And some general, plot-related things happen, too, but the former is more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am emotionally dead after last night's episode, but I'm now finished with finals week (thank goodness), and ready to crank out some more Technical Assistance. The good news for you all is that I've already finished the chapter due for _next_ Thursday, so we're ahead of schedule!
> 
> I hope this chapter helps with last night—it's a lot fluffier than I usually write. It still drives the plot, of course, but it just feels fluffy. (Maybe because I don't do fluffy well.) I don't know how to explain it. *throws chapter at readers* Here! :P I always love to hear what you think, but thanks for reading! :)

Felicity nearly jumps out of her skin when she hears her window open behind her at work. It's a quiet night, and she doesn't expect any visitors, especially on her floor, since most of the business leaders don't want to get caught dead in the nerdy IT department. It takes her a long moment to return her breathing to normal, and it's only then that she turns around, only to find herself staring at the Vigilante's chest. She tilts her head up higher to focus on his face, but she can't even make out his eyecolor between the shading from the mask and his hood.

"You know," she starts, her voice a little high from the surprise, "I'm starting to think that you're _trying_ to scare the crap out of me." She tries to sound collected and calm, but she knows her voice is too fluttery to pull that off properly.

Some sort of breathy sound goes through the voice synthesizer before he responds, "If I meant to frighten you, I would have you hanging by your ankles down at the docks until you told me what I wanted to know." The sinister statement sends a chill down her spine, but then she notices that one corner of his mouth is upturned. Was that a _joke?_ Since when did the terror of Starling City make jokes? Something tells her this relationship has made a turn for the insane, and all Felicity wants for a moment is to get off this roller coaster ride _now_.

Still, she responds in kind, her voice not as high this time as she teases, "What, did your mother never tell you how to say 'please'?" She thinks it's a little silly, but this is the most normal conversation she's had with anyone in months—and she's discussing this with _the Vigilante_ , of all people. Her life has suddenly hit a new low, she can't help but think.

The Vigilante, for his part, seems amused by her statement, but then the partial smile falls from his face as he grows serious again. "No," he says finally, slowly, "I don't think she ever did." It surprises Felicity for a moment that he's so willing to share details about himself, but then she thinks that it might be a tender subject. She knows her own mother is a sensitive spot, so she doesn't press any further.

Instead, she dares ask, "What have you brought me tonight, Mr. Arrow? A shot-up laptop? A police server hack? Or do you just want me to make bugs again?" She waves to the chair near her desk. "Sit down—you make me nervous when you stand over me impressively like that."

He does as she asks, but it makes him no less intimidating, with his arms crossed over his chest and the impressive glare he wears. As he goes through the motions, his muscles ripple; Felicity is reminded once again how tightly that green leather clings. He wears it better than his counterpart she met the last time, she thinks. Not-Vigilante was pretty impressive, sure, but the Vigilante's strength is more understated. Felicity shakes her head a couple times to clear it so she can stop ogling a man who kills people. Still, Felicity reminds herself that it's okay to look, just so long as she returns to reality afterward.

His glare is quickly replaced by an almost smile, though, when he responds, "I thought I'd change things up this time. I'm looking for someone who might be part of the Royal Flush Gang."

"Royal Flush Gang?" she repeats, that paranoid tone creeping into her voice. It was just a few days ago that she was telling Oliver that the Vigilante should go after criminals like them. Her thoughts spill out as something akin to, "Do I need to check my clothes for bugs?" When he tilts his head and doesn't answer, she continues, "I was just discussing with a friend how you could do so much more good in this city if you'd stop going after billionaires exclusively and start trying to stop the _real_ criminals running around."

He's quiet for a long moment, but when he responds, it's vague. "I don't like the idea of criminals hurting innocent bystanders in _my_ city," he says finally, his tone a little possessive.

" _Your_ city?" Felicity repeats. "Last time I checked, this city is pretty much owned by the Queens and the Merlyns. Which means you probably don't own more than a green hood, a bow, and some really pointy arrows." He lets out a breath, either in irritation or amusement, as she turns her back to him, flexing her fingers over her keyboard. "Now, who am I looking for?"

"His name is Derek Reston," the Vigilante responds quickly. "He's a Starling City resident. I tried doing some research myself, but I haven't found anything."

Felicity nods, agreeing with the sad truth of it all. "Google can only do so much, my friend." She hits a few keys to do her own research and frowns at her results. "Unfortunately, your buddy Derek doesn't leave a long Internet trail behind him. No social media accounts—not even a MySpace that has pictures of you with that _one_ horrible haircut you had for two weeks in 2003." Softer, she mutters, "I still haven't lived that down." She pulls up a different screen and starts typing code into it.

"What are you doing?" the Vigilante asks her, leaning closer so that he can see her computer screen. She can feel his breath on her neck as he watches her, and her fingers fumble over the keys for a moment. She tries to tell herself she's afraid, but she's not afraid of him anymore. What she really feels is comfortable with his close presence, as though he's some sort of guardian angel instead of the vigilante that most of Starling City has learned to fear.

"Exploratory server surgery," she mutters distractedly, staring at her screen. She's barely paying attention to him now; she's been known to become so interested in her work that she forgets the world around her. Of course, she can't exactly forget the Vigilante, but he's no longer her priority. All that matters is the string of code she's typing.

"What?" he asks, demanding clarification. Felicity can't see his face, but she can guess his expression: brow furrowed, mouth slanted downward, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Then it scares her that she knows the Vigilante so well.

"Exploratory server surgery," she repeats, slower this time. When he still doesn't respond, she continues, "You know—bridging the digital gap between employee and visitor? Performing unscheduled file maintenance of non-client systems? Warming my hands on the inside of a firewall?" When he still doesn't respond, she huffs in irritation. " _Hacking_ , braniac. _That's_ what I'm doing."

She frowns as she looks at the screen for Starling City Bank that appears on her screen. "Let's see... Derek Reston hasn't touched his bank account in close to four years." She tilts her head to the side. "Makes sense, I guess, since the Royal Flush Gang started up about four years ago." A few more keystrokes, and another screen shows itself. "Last employment history was about seven years ago at... _oh_." She stops as she reads the words.

"Where?" the Arrow demands quickly, his voice just behind her right ear. It sends a shiver down her spine, but she keeps her mind on business. She's already let her thoughts run wild once; doing it again is inviting unnecessary risks.

"He used to work at Queen Manufacturing. Apparently, when the company was sold, all the employees got nothing—Robert Queen was able to get better lawyers and get out of all the union contracts. All the employees were fired on the spot with no pension, no severance—the heartless bastard even weaseled out of paying insurance benefits." She sighs. "I'm suddenly thrilled to realize that Oliver Queen is _nothing_ like his father. I can't see him doing this to fifteen hundred loyal employees."

"You shouldn't idolize a person you don't even know," the Vigilante responds darkly.

Felicity turns around in her chair, surprised for a moment to find his strong jawline only inches from her face. It takes her far too long to pull herself out of the haze and remember what she was talking about. She jabs a finger into his chest. "Listen, buster," she snaps, feeling that angry fire starting to build within her, "Oliver Queen is my friend. Do you understand that? He's _off-limits_. You don't say bad things— _incorrect_ bad things, by the way—and you _certainly_ don't go after him. As of this moment, the Queen family is officially off-limits, okay? That family has been through Hell and back and they don't need _you_ to run around in your tight leather pants and put arrows in them. You got that?"

He nods once, but both corners of his mouth turn up. "Are you complaining about my pants?" he asks, sounding almost incredulous.

" _God_ no," Felicity replies instantly, but then her face heats as she realizes her tone implies she likes them far too much (which, she has to admit, she does). She stares at him awkwardly for a moment before turning back to her computer and focusing on business. "The last credit card statements from Reston showed that he liked to frequent a bar just down from the old Queen factory. Old habits die hard—maybe he still hangs out there"—she chuckles awkwardly—"you know, when he's not robbing banks."

As she turns back to him to see his expression, he says, "Felicity, you're amazing."

She huffs. "It's true, but amazing doesn't pay my bills. Say thank you with gifts." Her snarky response is meant to be a joke, and she's pleased to see it makes the corners of his mouth turn upward a little. Then she remembers that this is the Vigilante, and she should only be pleased to see him leave. "Thank you," she says, serious this time.

"No, thank _you_ ," he replies slowly. He hesitates for a moment before placing a hand on her shoulder, hesitating so that she's aware of what he's going to do. She surprises herself because she doesn't even flinch this time. "You're risking a lot by helping me—don't think that I don't recognize that." His tone is both sincere and appreciative under that modulator, and Felicity thinks she's seeing a whole new side of this man who has started to frequent her life.

"Good luck out there," she says finally, as he rises from his seat. "You know where to find me if you need anything." She hesitates before turning in her chair and picking up a sticky note from her desk. She writes her cell phone number on it before turning around, holding it between her finger. Before she can back down, she stands up and sticks it to his leather jacket, the fluorescent pink contrasting ridiculously with the dark green of his jacket. "And do me a favor and _call me_ if you're about to get yourself killed and a little technical assistance could be enough to save your life."

He pulls the sticky note from his jacket with a half-smile on his face, before unzipping his jacket and sticking it to the inside on the left. "Thank you," he says slowly, "but I don't have a phone. Something tells me I can't get a contract with any of the carriers."

Felicity snorts, rolls her eyes. "Please," she drawls. "Burner phones, my friend. No contracts, no names, no identification—especially if purchased with cash in a store that doesn't have security cameras. Find yourself one, and then you'll be able to contact whomever you like." She holds up her smartphone before winking. "Don't worry, though—I'm encrypted." At the confused set of his mouth, she adds, "Oh, like _you_ want Uncle Sam watching _your_ every move. I think you're being a bit judgmental."

He chuckles softly before turning back to the window. He stops for a moment, turning back to her. "Goodnight, Felicity." Without waiting for her to respond, he fires an arrow to a building across the street and rappels down it like he's Spider-Man or something.

"Well, that was slick," she mutters to herself before gathering her things. She said she'd work later than eight, but who could work after an encounter like _that?_

 

* * *

 

Oliver can't believe he's returning to the same building twice in less than twenty-four hours, but visiting Queen Consolidated today is a must. At least, he thinks, he's using the front door this time. He's starting to forget what the normal entry procedure in a building is supposed to be. His first instinct is to go to the IT Department, as he's been wont to do over the last few weeks, but today's visit isn't about seeing Felicity—it's about seeing Walter.

As he disembarks the elevator on the top floor of the Queen Consolidated building, he thinks of how much he absolutely _hates_ being here. It just isn't the same place without his father, and he dislikes being the center of everyone's attention, now that he's been away from the press, the prying eyes, and the glamor for five years.

Walter's secretary tries to stop Oliver as he charges into the room, but Oliver won't hear of her objections and goes to see his stepfather immediately. "Oliver," the Englishman says, nonplussed as ever, "it's always nice to see you here—where you belong." Oliver's family has been pushing him to become a part of Queen Consolidated since the day he arrived in Starling City again, but the last thing he wants is to be burdened by the weight of another responsibility. Tracking down the names on his father's list is enough pressure for Oliver—especially since Felicity unknowingly convinced him to apprehend Starling's criminals, too. "I take it this isn't a social visit."

"No," Oliver agrees. "It isn't." He hesitates, trying to find a way to ask for his favor without ruining her reputation. "I think you remembered that I hired Felicity Smoak to build my computer for me."

Walter chuckles at the name, showing that she clearly leaves the same impression on everyone. "Yes," Walter agrees, "she's quite a clever girl—a valuable asset to us here." He pauses, clearly thinking of a delicate way to phrase things. "We recruited her out of college three years ago—and we're quite lucky, it appears. I believe she turned down several offers with large software conglomerates to work with us."

It shouldn't surprise Oliver, but it does. "Really?" he asks, wondering why confusion coats his tone. He should know by now that she's ridiculous, though it seems to be one of her better qualities.

Walter nods solemnly. "I haven't heard the story directly from her, mind you, but I do believe there were some offers from American Micro Devices, Intel, IBM, and Apple. She actually wrote most of the code for the version of Linux we use here at the office." He nods, smiling slightly. "Though I'm sure this news hardly surprises you."

"Not at all," Oliver agrees. He makes a face. "The thing is, I'm really pleased with my computer, but she has refused to let me pay her for it. I'd like to show my appreciation, though." He frowns, mostly for show. "I was thinking—it's about time for the annual bonuses, right?" At Walter's nod of affirmation, Oliver continues, "I thought that maybe I could match her company bonus—anonymously, of course. I think she'd be more likely to take it if she thought she earned it for her work at Queen Consolidated."

Walter gives him that appraising for not the first time. "You'd make a shrewd businessman, Oliver," he says finally, with a slight smile. "I would be pleased to help you with that. If you would leave a check with my secretary, I could help you with that." He looks up a few records on his computer before saying, "It appears that Miss Smoak stands to receive a five-thousand dollar bonus this year."

It takes Oliver a ridiculous amount of time to write out the check—it's apparently a skill his hands have forgotten in the past five years—but he matches the five thousand dollars without a second thought. She's worth it, he decides, and money is the only way he can think of to express his gratitude. He doesn't know her well enough to purchase a gift, and he doesn't really think she'd appreciate the grand display of a bouquet of flowers.

"You know," Walter starts casually, instantly making Oliver's hackles raise, "I think it's quite time you took your place as head of this company. I know you could run it far better than I in the long-term. I could stay on to help you through the first trying months—"

"Thank you," Oliver interrupts, "but I think you're doing a wonderful job, Walter." Irritated by the battery he's received for the past few weeks, he continues, "And I think everyone has forgotten that I spent the last five years on a deserted island, not earning my MBA."

Walter nods to concede his point. "As you like," he says finally. "I would certainly never want you to think you're not welcome in your own company."

"And I appreciate that, Walter," Oliver concedes, deciding against his better judgment that he might like the man, "but I don't think I'm CEO material. This was my father's corporation"—the words are painful as he forces them out in past tense—"and I think he understood that I never wanted any part of it."

"And I think that Robert would be proud of you for choosing your own path," Walter responds carefully, as if he's afraid of upsetting Oliver. It doesn't, though—Oliver is certain that his father would be proud of his plan to save Starling City.

"Thank you," is his response, though, and he nods before leaving. He agrees completely; Robert wanted nothing more than to write his wrongs, and Oliver is doing that for him. But Oliver is choosing his own path in how to implement his plan—and choosing whom he wishes to share it with. Diggle was an obvious choice—Oliver knew from the beginning that he would ask Diggle to aid him in his goal—but Felicity was an unexpected turn for the best.

Felicity. The name reminds him that he still hasn't made things completely right with her, even after the bonus.

After all, he still owes her a printer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, _the finale last night_. If you'd like to talk to me about it, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thatmasquedgirl.tumblr.com/). Feel free to [ask me](http://thatmasquedgirl.tumblr.com/ask/) anything you'd like to know about me, my writing, or my Olicity and Arrow opinions. :)


	8. Wireless Access Troubleshooting and Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity gets a visitor at her apartment, and it isn't the Vigilante this time. Well, sort of--it's complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is my favorite chapter posted so far. :) I'm pretty proud of how the Oliver/Felicity scene turned out, as well as the bonus story. I think it's a pretty fun chapter, but I'll let you see what you think. ;) Reviews/comments are much appreciated, though I do appreciate that you just read this. :) Thank you!

Felicity is glad to be home, with the only thing separating her from comfort and bliss being a locked door to which she has the key. It was a bad day because she actually had to dress up for her employee review with her boss, and she's not equipped to run around in heels all day doing office work, especially in her favorite pink, gray, and black dress—which she's come to realize is a little too short and hugs far too nicely for office work. And of course she ran out of her apartment late, so her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail instead of being styled properly. Her day has been spent crawling around in office spaces, so she can no longer feel her feet—which is good because, before they went numb, they felt like someone was jabbing needles into them.

Just as she's about to turn the key on her door and sink into a blissful marathon of ice cream and sci-fi gloriousness, a voice calls from behind her, "Felicity!" She's so tired that she doesn't even recognize the voice, just turns on her aching heels toward whomever it is. She wishes for a moment she was a violent person so she can slap him for interrupting her plans for a fun night in.

Her eyes light up in surprise as she sees the man who dares stand in front of her and interrupt her planning of an interesting evening. "Oliver," she says, breathless in her surprise. He's gorgeous as always, but this time in jeans and a long-sleeved pullover and not a suit. Then she feels a paranoid feeling creep up on her. "What are you doing here?"

He offers her a rueful almost-smile. "I wanted to see you about some technical things," he explains, holding up the laptop she built for him under one arm. "I tried to catch you at the office, but they told me you'd already left for the night. I hope you didn't mind me stopping by—the desk clerk said it was okay for me to come up." His eyes wander over her figure in a way that doesn't offend her—it doesn't imply that he sees her as a conquest, but rather expresses interest in the difference in her attire. "You look nice," he offers hesitantly, as if he isn't certain how she'll take the compliment.

"Thanks," she answers, flushing at the unexpected attention. "And that's perfectly fine," she assures him tiredly, now that she sees her paranoia is completely unfounded. She winces. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm probably not going to be a great hostess tonight—bad day at the office." She turns her key and motions him in after the door swings open. "Come on in, take off your skin, rattle around in your bones," she offers, surprising herself by using the old saying from the latter part of her childhood.

He chuckles as he walks into the main area, kitchen on one side, living area on the other, both just beyond the short hallway that connects to the entrance. She stops in the hall, and Oliver stops just ahead of her, watching her step out of her shoes and throw her bag onto the small table with her keys. Her coat somehow makes it onto the rack, and then she's moving again.

"Sorry," she offers. "High heels and IT work aren't exactly friends." She motions to the couch. "Have a seat." She glances around the room for a moment because something about it feels different, and then she sees it. The sleek black printer definitely isn't hers, since her old one is now in a dumpster somewhere. "Oh!" she says in surprise, rushing over to it. She smiles when she sees the dark green bow—a decidedly store-bought one that you get for a dollar at the nearest supermarket—sitting on it. The Vigilante apparently has a sense of humor. There's no card or anything, but she knows the message he's trying to send: _I don't break my promises. Thank you._ Forgetting her visitor, she hugs it, squealing just a little—it's far nicer than the one she had before, and it's definitely a top-of-the-line piece of equipment. She hopes he didn't pay too much for it. Then she hopes he didn't steal it.

A light, breathy sound that could pass for laughter comes from the sofa. "Who's that from?" Oliver asks, his mouth turning down into a slight frown.

"Just a friend," Felicity replies, already feeling her cheeks heat in response. She chastises herself for being such a nerd. "He broke my printer a few weeks ago—the klutz knocked it off the stand—so he promised to buy me a new one." She feels guilty about lying to Oliver, but then she realizes that it's not really a lie—she did work out some aggression by smashing that printer to pieces before putting it in her trash. It was kind of fun, if she thought about it. She shrugs self-consciously, trying to find a way to change the subject. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he replies from the couch, and it takes everything Felicity has not to agree with him. Instead, she goes and pours herself a glass of water, sipping on it as she returns to the living area. She sits it on the coffee table, only to find Oliver sitting in the exact same place the Vigilante had, only weeks prior. It strikes her as an odd contrast for a moment, but then she shakes her head.

"Do you mind if I let Saphira out? She's my dog, and she's been cooped up in the second bedroom all day." Something flickers across his expression, and she rushes on, "It's okay if dogs bother you. She can wait." But she probably can't—she can hear Saphira scratching at the door now that she knows Felicity is home.

"It's not a problem," he assures her with a lift of his mouth. "I'm intruding in your home, after all." It surprises her how gracious he is, then she goes down another hallway to the guest (or Saphira's) bedroom before he changes his mind.

Saphira stops to greet her before she rushes into the living area, with Felicity following close behind. The shiba practically jumps into Oliver's lap, wagging her tail like they're old friends. Oliver, mercifully, takes it all in stride, just stroking the dog in his lap gently. Then, tail still in motion, Saphira lets out an ear-piercing scream.

Oliver jumps at the same time as Felicity, and he immediately moves his hands away, looking at her in confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't know—"

Felicity cuts him off, shaking her head, equally bewildered. "It's okay—just a shiba scream. They tend to do it when they're upset, or, like now, when she's thrilled to see someone. She usually does that after I've spent some time with... family." She doesn't know how to explain it properly, so she just settles with the easy explanation; it's not exactly right, but it will work. "I don't know why she screamed at you, though. It's not like you've met before."

Oliver seems less concerned as he focuses his attention back on Saphira. "Maybe my laptop still smells like you," he offers, not looking at her now.

"Maybe," Felicity agrees, deciding to let the conversation slide as she plops down on the other side of him, picking up Saphira from his lap and placing her on the cushion on her right. "So, what's wrong with your computer?"

Oliver shrugs slightly. "I'm not sure," he admits. "I can't connect to the wi-fi at the house." He looks a little sheepish. "I didn't want to bother you because I don't understand computers, so I asked Thea." The name immediately brings to mind memories of Felicity's only encounter with the heiress, and she automatically smiles. "She couldn't fix it, either, so I guess I did have to bother you after all."

Felicity waves him off, taking the computer from the coffee table where he sat it. It starts up in seconds, and she turns it to Oliver once she sees the password entry screen. "I need your password, please," she offers, immediately turning her head the other direction.

He sounds amused when he responds, "Why? You built it—you could probably hack it, too." It's a funny tone in his voice; it sounds breathy like his almost-laugh, and Felicity finally understands the phrase "a smile in your voice."

"I probably could," she admits after a long moment, "but I like to use that as a last resort. Hacking is almost worse than home invasion. Hackers don't just walk away with your possessions—it's almost like they take or destroy your thoughts and ideas. That's the _worst_ kind of theft." She thinks about the hacking she does for the Vigilante, and then she reminds herself that's different—she's not doing it because she can, but to help stop crime. She likes to think of it as picking up where the law leaves off; the cops can't or won't help, so _somebody_ has to stop the criminals who keep their toes on the line separating legal and illegal.

"I've never thought about it that way before," Oliver admits, and then she can feel the laptop shift slightly. "It's all yours."

Felicity turns it back to him. "No it isn't," she says flatly. "Being able to connect to wi-fi is a crucial skill in this world, Oliver. I have wi-fi service here. Try to log into my network." She groans at her own statement, earning a questioning glance from Oliver. "And that just sounded like the world's cheesiest nerd pick-up line, but you know what I meant."

It's the first time she's actually seen a genuine smile on his face, as he chuckles under his breath. It's ridiculously unfair that he turns such a weapon on Felicity—like she could resist that level of God-given charm. "I did know what you meant," he agrees, bypassing her comment altogether. It's probably for the best, though.

Because he has one of those filters on the screen, she slides closer until she's able to see. Only then does she realize she's about two inches from being on his lap, and she's hanging over his left shoulder, her arm atop it. "Sorry," she says, about to completely back off because she's _way_ too close.

He immediately stops what he's doing to put a hand on the arm over his shoulder. "No, it's fine," he assures her, but then continues plugging along with the wi-fi connection.

Felicity guides him though the process gently, correcting him softly when he does something wrong. With Oliver at the helm and Felicity's password, he finally manages to make a successful Internet connection. When he does, she immediately moves from hanging over his shoulder, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, since he obviously doesn't like people touching him.

"Not bad for a beginner," she says in conclusion, smiling to show she's teasing. Oliver seems pretty pleased with himself, too, so she's glad she didn't turn him away. She knows he probably hasn't had enough to be happy about since he's been back.

He takes the compliment with surprising modesty. "Well, I learned from the best." He shifts, pulling an envelope from his pocket and handing it to her. At Felicity's questioning glance, he answers, "When I said I was going to see you, Walter asked if I could deliver this. It's Queen Consolidated business, I think."

She plucks the envelope from his hand, surprised to find a letter inside. Her first thought is that she's being fired, but then she thinks Walter would probably call her into the office to fire her—not send Oliver in her stead and ruin a budding friendship in the process. Her eyes widen as she reads it, and then she finally dares look at the attachment—a check in her name for ten thousand dollars. "Holy cheese," she mutters under her breath. "QC definitely knows how to do bonuses."

"Can I ask what it is?" Oliver questions with a partially concealed smile that makes her think he had something to do with this. Her eyes narrow in response.

"I just received my company bonus for the year," she replies, "for ten thousand dollars, which might now make me paid about what I'm worth." She points a finger at him with an accusatory glance. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you? Because, while I do need the money, I'd like to think I earned my performance bonus based on, well, performance." She frowns. "And also because I don't want to feel like I owe you something."

"You earned every penny," he assures her. "All I did is deliver the envelope. But I would gladly pay you for building my laptop—and your help tonight—if you'd let me."

Felicity rolls her eyes. "Friends don't take money from friends," she informs him. "Employees perform services, friends do favors for one another." She taps his shoulder with the envelope when he frowns slightly. "But thanks for bringing this—and for offering. But I don't want your money."

He seems to think about that for a moment before saying reluctantly, "Well, I think I've interrupted your personal time enough for one night. Goodnight, Felicity." He starts to rise from his seat.

"Wait," she demands, putting her hand on his shoulder to stop him, then pulling away instantly as she thinks of how much he hates contact. "I haven't known you very long, but I do recognize when you're hesitating. Why did you _really_ come here?"

Oliver's mouth lifts a little, even though he sighs heavily. "The other night," he starts slowly, "you gave me some helpful advice." He hesitates, but Felicity already knows what he's going to say.

"And you would like to use me as your sounding board again," she finishes for him, to which he nods. She folds her legs under her better as she says, "I believe I told you to let me know when you need to talk to someone."

The reminder seems to bolster his confidence. "Since I've returned home, my mother and Walter—mostly my mother—have been trying to convince me to take over as CEO of Queen Consolidated." He pauses, waiting for her to respond.

She thinks about the first time they met for a moment and remembers that he told her he wasn't anyone's boss—and how his tone implied that he liked it that way. "And you don't want to say yes, but you don't want to disappoint your mother, either," she finishes for him. She understands completely—her childhood was filled with disapproving looks from her mother and other motherly figures.

His eyebrows rise, and Felicity thinks his surprise is insulting. "Exactly," he agrees. "I'm not interested in becoming my father. He knew I didn't want to join the company, and I'm tired of everyone pretending that I spent the last five years of my life finishing an MBA at an ivy league college instead of trying to survive a cold, unforgiving island." It's the first time he's ever described the island, and Felicity thinks he might be getting comfortable with her.

"It seems to me that everyone always has a plan for your life," she starts slowly, "but how about a better question. What would _you_ like to do with your life, Oliver?"

He hesitates. "I'd like to start a nightclub," he continues finally. "My dad's factory in the Glades is just rotting down, and it would be an excellent place for a business. And I don't know much—certainly not how to run an international corporation—but I _do_ know what makes a good place to party."

Felicity doesn't laugh, but she does smile. "Well, if you're planning on calling it 'Queen,'" she quips, "you might not like the clientèle you get. But you could have Freddie Mercury posters on the wall." After he lets out a breathy sound that resembles a laugh, she continues, more seriously, "I think that if you want to start a club, you should do it. You don't have to be either of your parents to be successful—and, in my case, thank God for that." She doesn't let her thoughts wander too long before continuing, "Have you tried to tell them that?"

"I have," he responds. "But they won't listen."

Felicity shrugs. "Well, then, maybe you need to find another way to get through to them. Stop telling them you're not interested, and start _showing_ them instead. It may take a while, but eventually they'll get the message."

The response must spark something in Oliver because inspiration flashes in his eyes. "Thank you, Felicity." Then, softly and hesitant, "And I know you're not asking any questions about the island. I appreciate that."

The sincerity in his tone and the intense gazed fixed upon her makes her blush. "I don't want to pry into something that is so obviously none of my business," she explains. "I'm sure that whatever happened was traumatic and horrible, and if you don't want to talk about it, neither do I." She hesitates. "But, on the other hand, if you ever want to talk to someone about it, I promise to just listen."

He doesn't respond this time, but just nods. "I'll leave you to your evening then, Felicity." He rises from his seat, and Felicity follows him as he moves toward the door. He turns before he leaves, offering her a charming smile. "Goodnight." He's gone before Felicity can respond, and she's still reeling by his presence.

And, for the second time that night, she can't help but think that smile will be the death of her.

 

* * *

 

When the first person she sees is Laurel Lance, Felicity feels the need to turn on the spot and walk away. Despite how she feels, she keeps walking because this isn't about Felicity or Laurel—this is about Oliver and being there for him. She takes a deep breath and charges forward into the crowd gathered at the site of the new Robert Queen Memorial Applied Sciences building.

She wonders where Oliver is—he asked her to be here, yet he's nowhere in sight. Apparently he doesn't sleep, because the text woke her up at three in the morning (she always forgets to turn her phone on silent). All the message said was that he wanted her to be at the dedication of the building. She informed him that employees didn't get a day off for the occasion, and his response had simply been, _I'll take care of that_ , and she found an invitation to the ceremony on her desk the next morning—along with a letter signed by Walter Steele approving her absence from work. Her boss had been a little baffled by the quick turnaround and short notice, but he didn't dare question his employer.

Because she's focused on avoiding Laurel, she accidentally bumps into someone, and she loses her balance. He catches her easily, and she finds herself looking at none other than Tommy Merlyn. "Hey, Smoaky," he greets as he releases her. "I'm no stranger to girls falling over me, but you're the first one to do it literally."

Nerves already frazzled, she frowns. "Dream on, Merlyn. You are _so_ not my type," is her response, and she instantly thinks it comes off too harsh. She's about to apologize when he actually laughs, and she frowns in confusion.

"Now I see why Ollie likes you so much," is his not-so-helpful explanation. Before she can ask what he means by that, Tommy adds, "After that party went downhill a few weeks ago, I asked him if you needed a ride home after all the chaos, and I thought he was going to strangle me." Almost thoughtfully, he adds, "And, Ollie's _never_ done that over a girl before."

Felicity turns crimson, but covers it with irritation. "You guys do realize that most women don't find overprotectiveness attractive, right?" She huffs. "Frankly, it's just demeaning."

He chuckles about the time that Laurel comes up to them. He puts his arm around the lawyer instantly, smiling. "Hey, Laurel, this is a friend of Ollie's—her name is Felicity Smoak." Felicity is surprised he even remembers her first name—he hasn't called her anything but "Smoaky" since they met. "Smoaky, this lovely lady is Laurel Lance, Starling's best lawyer and an old friend."

Felicity does an awkward wave before saying, "We've met, actually." She doesn't expound and Laurel doesn't talk—though she does manage to keep a poker face.

Sensing the tension, Tommy asks, "So, not to be rude, but what are you doing here, anyway?" The question is clearly aimed at Felicity.

She shrugs. "I have absolutely no clue," she replies honestly. "Oliver asked me to be here, so I came." She rolls her eyes. "He didn't say why, though—cryptic as ever." She looks around at the gathering of people. "And of course he's not here."

"I think he's going to be announced as taking over Walter's position as CEO," Laurel chimes in for the first time. "He told me about it the last time I talked to him."

Felicity doesn't say anything because she doesn't want to be rude—or worse, start a catfight—and mercifully Walter starts his announcement. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he begins as members of the press start snapping photographs. "Thank you for coming today. We're here to announce that construction on the new Robert Queen Memorial Applied Sciences building is complete." There's a smattering of applause before he continues, "Our first order of business is to start research on—"

"We all know that's not why we're _really_ here," a voice calls from the back, and Felicity freezes as she recognizes it, long before the collective gasp of the crowd and the shutters on cameras start clicking. She wonders what the hell he's thinking—and what stunt he's going to pull—because she knows _exactly_ what he's planning in theory.

Everyone turns at once to stare at Oliver, who casually picks a flute of champagne from a waitress' tray and taking a sip before putting it back. Then he walks casually through the crowd, weaving his way slowly. He walks right by Felicity, and she doesn't expect him to register her presence, but he does. His arm brushes hers intentionally, and he offers her a wink before walking forward. A sense of dread washes over her; after all, the last time he winked at her he was wrongfully arrested for being the Vigilante.

When he finally reaches the podium, he argues with Walter for a moment before speaking into the microphone. "Hello everyone," he says cheerfully, but Felicity wonders if anyone else notices the tense set of his shoulders or the fact that his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not sure if you know me, but my name is Oliver Queen." He sounds every bit like the man they all expect him to be—that pompous, arrogant ass Felicity was expecting that first day. Though she doesn't like the way he's portraying himself, she does understand why he has to put on the reckless-heir-to-a-fortune mask. "The reason Mr. Steele called you all here was so he could announce that he and my mother want me to take my father's place as CEO of Queen Consolidated." As soon as he finishes, more shutters start clicking away, and he has to hold up his hands for silence before the applause dies down.

"It's a nice position," he continues casually, "and I think it's a position meant for responsible leadership and dedicated, driven men and women." He chuckles, but it's completely fake. "And if you know me, you know that's not really my forte." He turns back toward his mother and Walter. "So, Mom, thanks for the offer—but no thanks. My father was an excellent executive, but I'm not my father—no matter how much I wish I was more like him." A pain-stricken look flickers across his face before he delivers his final statement: "Quit asking me to be—because I'll never measure up." With that, he ignores the flashes of cameras as he walks off the stage and disappears into the crowd with the practice of someone familiar with ducking the paparazzi. All is silent for a long moment.

Felicity is the one to start the slow clap.


	9. Digital Photography Analysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity comes to the conclusion that, when your dog is in love with the Vigilante, you're probably in too deep. Oh, and some plot-related things happen, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's Thursday again! :) So here, have a new chapter of Technical Assistance. I apologize in advance for what I'm going to do to you in this one. I know you won't like the ending, and I don't really like this bonus story. I think I might have failed this city. :P I'll let you make your own conclusions, though. Reviews and comments are the best way to do that, but thank you for reading anyway. :)
> 
> Also, I apologize because I've been so slow to respond to reviews, comments, PMs, etc. It's been a very busy week for me, and I just haven't been responding the way I should. However, I plan to do that while watching Doctor Who after I get this posted, so don't give up on me! :)
> 
>  **Also, you might consider reading "Criminal Data Analysis" before this one, if you haven't already.** It was posted over the long weekend, and it takes place before this chapter. Just wanted to let you know that went up. :)

Felicity sits by her window, finally starting to get antsy after waiting for several hours.  It's the first time she's actually _waited_ for the Vigilante to show up by her open window, but it's also the first time she called him.  He let her know how to contact him a few days ago, returning her sticky note with his own number written across it.  She immediately plugged the number in her phone, though she never thought she'd use it.

Then all hell broke loose earlier in the day.  Felicity saw the news on the Internet—apparently someone attempted to kill Moira Queen.  After dialing Oliver to make sure his mother was all right, she returned to the SCPD database to check some information.  She gathered all she could, then called the Vigilante.  She expected him to turn her down—especially when she mentioned Oliver and made the stipulation that no one was to be killed—but, surprisingly, he agreed.

She continues to keep exhaustion from overtaking her; there have been several days of long work hours, and the sleep-deprivation is starting to catch up with her.  She doesn't have any more coffee in her apartment, and staying awake is proving impossible.  After a few more moments, she ends up losing the fight.

When she awakens, it's to a gentle, leather-clad glove on her shoulder, shaking her gently.  "Felicity," he says sharply, in that synthesized voice.  She opens her eyes to find him closer than she expects— _too_ close.  She can see the mask over his eyes and the dark irises underneath, the color still hidden by the dark room.  Startled, she immediately scrambles backward, tripping over a lamp.

She waits as both her and the inanimate object fall to the ground, but it doesn't come.  The Vigilante darts out at alarming speed, catching the lamp with one hand before steadying her with a hand on her elbow.  The leather glove feels cold but soft against the skin of her arm, and his grip is both firm and oddly gentle, as though he's concerned about hurting her.  He sits the lamp firmly on the ground again, helps her into a solid standing position, both hands on her elbows.

"Are you all right?" he asks carefully as he releases her.  His eyes are piercing—and oddly familiar.  She can't understand why, but then she shakes her head and remembers adrenalin is coursing through her veins and she's sleep-deprived.  Maybe she needs to calm down.

"Yeah," she assures him, rubbing her forehead with her palm, willing her heartbeat to slow down.  "It's just usually that I wake up to a cup of coffee and a mouthful of Saphira's fur, not a Vigilante."  She shakes her head.  "Sorry."

"I didn't mean to startle you," he responds, and she thinks it's as close to an apology as she's going to get.  Speaking of Saphira makes her curious, and she sees the dog sitting at the Arrow's heels, nose in the air and tail wagging furiously.  She paws at him once, screaming to get his attention.  Surprisingly, he doesn't balk at the shrill sound; instead, he reaches down and pets her on the head, then reaches into his pocket and palms her some sort of treat.

Felicity shakes her head, but it makes her a little dizzy, so she stops immediately.  "Okay," she says, holding her hands out in an I'm-done gesture, "the _Vigilante_ is feeding my dog treats and stopping me from falling on my ass.  Clearly I've stepped into some weird, parallel universe, and hopefully when I wake up it will be back to normal again."  She frowns as the feeling gnaws at her.  "Should I check the sky for a fleet of zeppelins, or do I just need to wait for the army of Cybermen to show up at my door?"

" _What?_ " he asks her, tilting his head to the side as his mouth turns into a confused frown.  He looks adorable like that, she can't help but think, but then she remembers he's _the Vigilante_ , and she should in no situation find him adorable.  She doesn't see him as a killer, sure, but that doesn't change the fact that he's dangerous and that people around him tend to turn up dead.

She shakes her head.  "Never mind," she assures him.  "The bottom line of that is I'm a nerd who likes to make references to fifty-year-old British television shows and that this doesn't seem like real life anymore.  It doesn't matter."  Then she remembers why she called him to her apartment in the first place.  "Come with me—I have something to show you."

She charges into her living area, and both the Vigilante and Saphira follow her.  He sits down on his end of the couch, and somehow ends up with the twenty-pound shiba inu on his lap.  Felicity picks up the laptop with her carefully organized information, and the Vigilante shifts Saphira on the other side of him, taking up one couch cushion and part of another.  Felicity flops next to him as she opens the laptop, opening to the picture she found of the assassin flying down the road—headed East, as Oliver had said—running a red light at a ludicrously high speed.  She practically sits the laptop on his lap, her leg brushing his as she points to the blurred photograph.  "This is what I have on our shooter," she informs him.  "It's a pretty rough photograph, but I was able to edit it so that we could get a better picture of who it was."

"Who is he?" the Arrow asks, and his confidence in her is overwhelming for a moment.  He doesn't know her all that well, yet his faith in her is so solidified—and it shouldn't be.  She doesn't trust him, and he should most certainly _not_ trust her.

"He is a _she_ ," she corrects as she shows the modified image, and that leather jacket clings to every curve.  "I traced her back to a warehouse on Eighth, where an ATM camera found _her_ "—she points to the next photograph, one of a woman with black hair—"exiting the same building a few hours later."  She pulls up the result from the facial recognition program she borrowed from Homeland Security.  "This is Helena Bertinelli—heir to the Bertinelli crime family.  The guy Moira Queen was meeting with worked for the Bertinellis wanted to talk about building contracts for the new Applied Sciences Division of QC."  She chuckles humorlessly, but then it turns into a jaw-splitting yawn.  "There have been several other reports," she continues drowsily, "all of them affecting the Bertinellis in some way.  I don't think Moira was the target.  I think Helena is trying to sabotage her father's business."

Another yawn courses through her, and sleep starts to coat her eyes.  She leans back against the couch, and the Vigilante says in his deep voice, "It must have taken a lot of work to come to that conclusion," he says slowly, his tone different, even under the synthesizer.  "Oliver Queen is lucky to have you in his life."

She blinks twice at the compliment, turning her head toward him, though she still lay against the sofa.  He's turned away from her, facing forward, and all she can see his the firm line of his mouth and the sharp contour of his jaw.  "I know you don't like him," she says suddenly, and he turns toward her with that tilt to his head again.  "I can tell by the way you talk about him.  You say I don't know Oliver, and you probably think I'm just another stupid girl under his spell, but you're wrong."  She takes a deep breath, and it feels like it takes a Herculean effort to lift her head.  "I think he's troubled, confused, and no longer the man everyone thinks he's supposed to be.  Everyone he knows either wants him to be the person he was before—or they want him to tell them about his five years in his own personal Hell."  She shakes her head.  "But no one stops to think about what _he's_ going through.  He's not perfect—and I don't expect him to be." She sighs.  "But he needs someone to listen, and I think I might have volunteered for the job."

She expects disapproval to answer the statement, but instead he says to her, as if weighing every word, "He doesn't deserve you."  Felicity waits for more, but he doesn't continue, but he does turn his head up, and she's able to see those indecipherable eyes again.

"Neither do you," she says flatly, causing him to frown.  But of course he doesn't let her finish before coming to the wrong conclusion.  She continues anyway, with a hesitant nudge to his shoulder, "But somehow you both got me anyway."  The corners of his mouth turn up then, and she's about to goad him again when another yawn tears through her.  "Sorry, I'm apparently too tired to tell you about my wonderful qualities."

"And we were just beginning to talk about your modesty," is the Arrow's sarcastic reply, but Felicity's cell phone starts ringing with the quirky, synthesized theme to her favorite TV show—and she reminds herself that she really needs to change it.  But, still, she knows who's calling.

"I probably need to get that," she informs him, and he waves a hand casually as if to say, _By all means_.  She picks up the phone and answers it, all the while focusing her eyes on the Arrow.  "You do realize I've been working twelve-hour days—and that I've been taking my work home with me after that, right?" is her greeting.

"Oh, I'm doing great, thanks for asking," comes the chipper-yet-sarcastic reply.  "It's nice to hear your voice, too, Sherly."  He's the only person in the world who calls her that; it comes from long hours spent in front of the television watching mystery shows.  She would almost always figure out the culprit, so he started calling her "Sherlock," and it just stuck over the years.  "So are you going to ask why I'm calling or not?"

She sighs.  "On a scale of one to ten, how important is this, Watson?" she asks, using his nickname, since he was always the Watson to her Sherlock.  She'd solve the TV mystery, and then spend the remainder of the show explaining it to him.  "And don't exaggerate—we both know you can be a drama queen."

He huffs.  "First of all, that's just rude—and I know you'll apologize later for hurting my feelings.  Second of all, it's about a four and it can wait.  But only because I love you so much."

"Love you, too, you jerk," is her reply, and the Arrow shoots her a curious glance but, mercifully, doesn't say anything.  "I'll call you first thing in the morning—well, after I get my coffee—and we'll talk about it."

"I'm playing second fiddle to coffee now?  I see how it is," he teases, feigning hurt.  She's known him long enough that she can hear the teasing tone underneath and she's grateful for the normalcy, even as the Vigilante sits on her couch.  "Talk to you in the morning, then, Sherly."

"Goodnight," she responds, before terminating the call.  The Arrow stares at her oddly for a moment before she finally feels self-conscious to ask, "What?  Did you really think my social life consists of meeting you to stop bad guys at dark-thirty and Doctor Who marathons?"  She holds up a hand, shaking her head.  "Never mind.  I don't want to know the answer to that."

"Thank you for the information," is his reply as he sidesteps her rant altogether.  "I'll let you know when I've found something."  He rises from the couch in a single, lithe movement.  Another yawn is her response, and he frowns before saying, "I can lock up as I leave.  You look like you need some rest."

The Arrow's surprisingly nice offer reminds her of the printer, and how he must have come and gone earlier despite her locks and security measures.  "Oh, before I forget," she starts, "I saw my printer the other night.  I meant to say thank you, but I haven't talked to you in a while."  She usually hugs people for presents to show her appreciation, but somehow, hugging the Vigilante doesn't seem like the wisest decision.  She hesitates before extending her hand for him to shake.  "So, thank you."

He's uncertain about the arrangement, too, and he falters before shaking her hand firmly.  The leather glove feels odd in her hand, but it's not as awkward an arrangement as Felicity was prepared for.  "Anything for you," he promises, and it scares her how serious it is.  "I'll show myself out."

She accepts, but she tells herself it's only because she's so exhausted.  "Sure," she says finally, "but only because I'm so tired."  She sighs as she collapses onto her bed.  "And make sure you lock my window.  I don't want anyone creeping in except for you."

He smiles slightly before putting a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of trust.  "Goodnight, Felicity."

"Goodnight and happy hunting," she replies.  She hears a chuckle and then he's gone.  She's not far behind him, but her travel is into sleep rather than the night.

 

* * *

 

Oliver awakens, and it takes him a long moment to remember where he is and how he got there.  He recognizes the warehouse as Helena's—the very one she stores her weaponry in—and the black mass of hair on the pillow next to him as Helena's, too.

He can't believe things escalated so fast; a few hours ago, he was intent on throwing her to the cops.  (Truth be told, he'd much rather have put arrows in her, but Felicity had convinced him otherwise.)  And then he had ended up on a dinner date with her, and things had taken a turn for the unusual.  Frank Bertinelli had insisted Oliver and Helena discuss business over dinner, and they had traveled to a nice Italian restaurant under the Bertinellis' control.  They had disliked each other at first, but then Helena finally started speaking to him openly.

"No one deserves what you've been through," she said to him abruptly, playing with the cross around her neck—an ironic touch, Oliver had originally thought.  "It was your crucible."  She holds up the necklace.  "This was given to me by my fiancé."  Her mouth became a hard line.  "He died.  Michael was my crucible."  She seems contemplative now, really focusing on what she's saying.  "It changes you, living through something like that.  Everyone expects you to be the person you were before, but you've already forgotten who that is.  You don't just become someone else—you become _something_ else."

For once, Oliver felt like someone truly understood his plight.  His mother and sister aren't ready to hear the truth, so he can't tell them.  Diggle could handle the truth, but he and Oliver just simply don't connect on that level.  Felicity, the closest to understanding, sympathizes, but Oliver knows she'll never quite understand what he's been through.  Helena, though—Helena is forged of the same battles he's fought, and she knows how he feels because she's _lived_ it.  And suddenly, the stranger he sat down to dinner with is now a friend, a comrade in the same plight.

Like all good things, however, it ends.  The dinner ends violently, and they both find themselves at Nick Salvati's mercy.  As enforcer for the Bertinelli crime family, he's the one who ends up doing their dirty work.  Salvati, however, is the one to reveal that Helena tried to gather evidence against her father—not Michael, who was killed for it—and accuses Oliver of being the one she's selling information to.

Before anything could happen, though, Oliver was able to break out of his zip-tie-handcuffs and stop them.  Helena's skill was with a gun, so she wasn't of much use until she squirmed out of her own handcuffs and Oliver threw her a gun.  His intention was to incapacitate, but it seemed that Helena had a new plan.  Once the firefight was over, he heard her fire into a half-conscious Nick Salvati.  "No one can know my secret," she said to Oliver as explanation then, her expression merciless.

It was then that he understood.  It was then that he recognized that Helena Bertinelli is just as damaged and lost as Oliver was when he first returned from the island.  They had both survived their respective trials, only for it to warp and twist them into angry, cold people.  But, while he had Felicity to suggest a different way, Helena had no one.  It was in that moment that he decided he would be her light in the darkness, the person that guided her to become not a merciless killer, but to seek her revenge in a much different way.

He has to admit that there is no attraction other than companionship with Helena.  He doesn't love her—nor does he think that will ever happen—but he _can_ help her.  He can guide her, train her—and the two of them would be perfectly unstoppable.  As a bonus, there's that familiar air of companionship between them, that shared experience of losing everything you've ever known and being forced to start all over again.  The understand each other on a deeper level—one where chemistry doesn't quite matter.

As if sensing the direction his thoughts are heading, she stirs in her sleep, turning over abruptly and facing him.  She frowns slightly, but it's in confusion.  "I was sure you'd be gone by now," she remarks dryly, lazily, her tone far too casual for the scenario.  But the Oliver Queen that survived solely on one-night stands died five years ago on an island in the North China Sea.

He sidesteps her almost-question.  "I was thinking we could stop your father together—without allowing innocent people to get hurt."

Her frown isn't in confusion this time.  "That's not how I do business," she says sharply.  "My father took everything from me, Oliver, and I want him to pay for that."

"And he will," Oliver assures her gently, "but innocent people shouldn't have to pay for that, too."  He hesitates.  "I used to think that killing was the only way, too, but someone showed me the light.  Maybe I can do the same for you."

It's clear she doesn't like the idea, but she responds finally, "Fine, we'll try it your way.  For now."  The hesitation there is clear, but it dissipates completely when she asks, "So is this a relationship or not?  I'm perfectly fine with casual sex—I just need to know what to expect."

"This is a relationship," Oliver assures her, surprised when he doesn't sound terrified.  "I didn't end up here because it was convenient, Helena."  Sensing her doubt, he continues, "I promise never to hurt you."

"I'm going to hold you to that," is her reply, and then she presses her lips to his.  Of course the kiss develops into something more—something similar to the night before.


	10. End User Feedback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity typically hates parties, but, really, who could hate anything involving her best friend, Tommy Merlyn, and Oliver Queen? We kick people out of the fandom for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters. It should answer some of your questions, too, while having some definite Olicity tension. ;) I had a blast writing it, so I hope you enjoy it, too! ;) Let me know what you think in a comment or review if you have the time. If not, thanks for reading! :)

Felicity makes her way over to the refreshment table without too much fuss or idle conversation—both of which are very good things. She can't remember why she agreed to accompany him to this benefit, but then she remembers it's because he asked and she can't deny him anything. She doesn't have any money to spare to give to the City Necessary Resource Initiative, though she does agree it is a good cause. Her presence here is absolutely meaningless.

She _does_ admit that being here has its perks; the idle rich _do_ know their wines. She was surprised to see several nice bottles of reds sitting at the bar, and, when she takes a sip, she's surprised to find it's a very nice vintage of Rothschild. She's not exactly a wine connoisseur, but she does know a nice red when she's drinking it, and she's definitely drinking it. Now she just stands in front of the _hors d'oeuvres_ and watches the crowd mingle.

Felicity is perfectly content to be standing there, viewing the crowd from a distance. She's never really been an extrovert; she's always been best when _observing_ the crowd, not standing in it. Sometimes she's called shy, but she doesn't think that's quite right. She definitely has a voice—especially when it wants to run away with her—but she just doesn't want to be the center of attention. Her date tonight, on the other hand, has that lovely Type-A personality she's heard about all her life, and he's perfectly content to be mingling with the crowd and rubbing elbows with the billionaires and other important people.

She's so engrossed in her thoughts that she nearly jumps out of her skin when a familiar voice says from beside her, "Hey, baby, what's your sign?" She rolls her eyes casually; of course he'd pick _now_ to show up.

She doesn't even look at him before saying, "No trespassing—private property." She finally looks over at Tommy Merlyn, smiling slightly, suddenly glad for the distraction from her depressing life. "You know, I'd think that a billionaire could afford to buy better lines." She nudges his shoulder slightly. "You're losing your touch, Merlyn."

"Nah," he says, returning the shoulder nudge, "I just wanted to see how you'd respond." He winks. "And, if you're curious, that was about what I expected. Actually, I'm pretty thrilled that you didn't pour your drink on me."

Felicity rolls her eyes. "That would be a waste of a beautiful wine," she says honestly, and he chuckles. "But that's good to know. Because—no offense, Merlyn, but I'm not interested. Ever." She crosses her arms for good measure, but her intended stern glance falls a little short with the smile on her face.

"You know, Smoaky, if we weren't such good friends, that might actually hurt my feelings. That's the second time you've turned me down in as many conversations," he replies cheerfully. He looks around. "So, where's Ollie? Besides perpetually late as always, I mean."

Felicity offers him a confused frown. It's a weird question, but, then again, this _is_ Tommy she's talking to. "How should I know?"

It's his turn to look confused. "Didn't you two—?" He trails off, making a motion between the two of them. When she still doesn't respond, he continues, "I thought he invited you." He says it so honestly that she knows he isn't messing with her; he genuinely thinks that someone like _Oliver Queen_ would invite _her_ to be his date for the night.

"No," she replies slowly. "Why would Oliver invite _me_ , of all people?" She motions to herself and the blue cocktail dress that is surprisingly out-of-place among the sea of black dresses and ties. "I mean, have you _met_ me, Merlyn? I'm not the kind of girl you invite to shindigs like these. I have a horrible open-mouth-insert-foot syndrome, and I have this crippling, debilitating disease where I make references to nerdy television." She shakes her head. "I am _not_ the perfect débutante that the billionaire takes to the charity ball—unless _I'm_ the charity case."

Tommy shakes his head. "Well, for the record, you look nice," he says offhandedly, and Felicity flushes with the unexpected praise. If he notices, he ignores it. "And, more importantly, you're the only one here who _isn't_ a boring carbon-copy of everyone else, and your date is an _idiot_ to leave you over here by yourself." He frowns in another direction, and Felicity is surprised to see Laurel speaking very intimately with a guy who looks _absolutely_ like a rich, pompous ass. "He's Carter Bowen—guy Ollie and I went to high school with. He's apparently a famous doctor now." He leans closer to Felicity, but she doesn't mind it because they're suddenly comrades in arms—or comrades in being wallflowers, at least. "You know what he's saying to her?" Tommy asks bitterly, and there's clearly some resentment there. "'Did you know that, as a doctor, I can diagnose myself as a giant tool?'"

Felicity actually laughs at that, nearly spitting out fine red wine at the unexpected comment, and she's suddenly excited by a happy childhood memory. "Oh, Barry and I used to play this game all the time as kids!" She's practically jumping up and down by this point. "I'll do one. And Laurel is saying to him, 'Really? You don't say. I'm not a doctor, but even _I_ could make _that_ diagnosis.'"

Tommy actually laughs at that— _really_ laughs, like Felicity's never heard him before. "You're not half bad, Smoaky," he replies, as though it surprises him. "And thank you for trying to heal my wounded ego, but if she wants to run off to that tool, well, let her." He shrugs, but Felicity sees through the nonchalance. "It's not like I have any hold over her, anyway."

Felicity scoffs. "Oh, please. It's obvious you two have _something_ going on. You should go for it." She can't stop the smile across her face—never thought she'd be giving _Tommy Merlyn_ dating advice. It's funny to see a known playboy so insecure about a woman.

Tommy looks at her as though he's trying to discern her expression—to see if she's lying or not. "You think?" he asks uncertainly. "Because she's kind of my best friend's ex, you know." He hesitates. "Ollie did say it was cool, though."

Felicity waves her hand in triumph. "Well, there you go. Free reign to have a relationship with your best friend's ex, then." She hesitates. "Helpful hint? A relationship with Laurel might go better if you stop thinking about her as your best friend's ex."

"Geez, Sherly," a voice says from behind her. "We've been here for, what, five minutes? And you're already giving out relationship advice." He offers her a new glass of wine, looking for all the world like he belongs there. His dark hair doesn't look any different than it does on a normal day, slightly spiked, and his green eyes are shining brightly with excitement. How an extrovert like Barry Allen ended up in a laboratory, Felicity will never know. "That seems a little early, even for you." He turns to Tommy. "And, I'd like to mention that you should probably take her advice—though her own experience is limited to a stalker lacrosse player in college."

Felicity doesn't hesitate to slap his shoulder. "Don't go around telling people stuff like that!" she says, her voice a little loud. Quieter, she says, "Merlyn, this is the jerk I've put up with since childhood, Barry Allen. He's also some sort of biochemist—don't ask him questions or he might start more scientific babble." She allows herself a smile to show Barry that she's teasing. "Barry, this is Tommy Merlyn. I'm sure you can fill in the rest for yourself, since we've grown up reading about the Merlyns in the paper."

Tommy blinks twice. "Oh, you must be the Dr. Allen from STAR Labs." He extends his hand. "Nice to meet you—thanks for showing up to help CNRI."

"My pleasure," he says, shaking hands with Tommy, and Felicity thinks her life has become a weird, alternate universe where she attends parties and is on a first-name basis with billionaires. Something on her face must indicate her feelings because Barry says to her, "So, are you looking for the zeppelins or the TARDIS?"

She waves a hand. "It's fine, Barry, really," she assures him. "I'm just waiting for the Cybermen to charge in and take over. After all, that happened at a nice party like this, too. All we need are some earbuds, and we could recreate the scene."

"Oh, God," Tommy says, smiling despite the horror in his voice, "you _both_ talk like that." He looks at Felicity. "You know, I didn't really believe you when you said that people actually understood you. Now I feel like there's a secret language that I should get in on."

"Whoa, back up," Barry says to her now. "You've met Tommy before, and you didn't tell me? We talk on the phone, like, twice a week, and you didn't mention this?" He actually sounds a little hurt, and Felicity winces.

She chuckles awkwardly at the tension. "It's kind of a new thing. And I'm having a difficult time believing it myself, my dear Watson." She doesn't know how to explain Tommy _or_ Oliver to Barry because it's such a bizarre little story. And he'd probably be furious if he ever learned she was helping the Vigilante—he's probably a bigger fangirl than she is, and he'd want to meet the guy.

Tommy chuckles at their interactions. "Oh, Ollie is going to be _pissed_ when he sees this," he comments. "Do me a favor and tell me before he walks up to you two—I'm still not sure if I want to be here for that."

Felicity frowns; Tommy seems more insistent that Oliver has some sort of feelings for her every time they meet. It's getting a little annoying, and, frankly, she's not sure she wants _anything_ to do with the love life of Oliver Queen. Barry gives her the look that says, _You better tell me about this later_ , and she suddenly hates Tommy Merlyn for ruining her life. "And now we can return to the scenario where a guy has no hold over a girl," Felicity says flatly. "For your information, we are _not_ like that."

"You and who aren't like what, Felicity?" a voice says darkly from behind her, and she cringes immediately. Barry looks a little stunned by the man she already knows is behind her, and Tommy doesn't hesitate to mouth, _Told you he'd be pissed_. She turns to face Oliver after plastering a smile on her face, but it falters when she sees the woman standing next to her.

She's tall and beautiful, her black hair flowing nicely. Her cocktail dress is exactly the right shade of black to blend in with the event, and she looks gorgeously in place with the scenario. But the problem is that Felicity knows that face, she knows that girl, and she most certainly should _not_ be standing in front of Felicity. Because Felicity is very certain that she tasked the Vigilante with putting Helena Bertinelli in jail. And he just wouldn't fail her like that.

_Would he?_

She puts her doubts aside, and plasters the smile back on her face. "Barry and I," she responds, her voice a little too loud and shrill, and Tommy has to hide his laugh in a lame cough. "Tommy was about to make some sort of inappropriate comment about me and Barry." She turns to Tommy. "And, frankly, that's just weird. Barry and I grew up together. I pulled cactus needles out of his face when he was ten, for God's sake. He's practically my brother." That actually earns her a smile from both billionaires, but she's more interested in Oliver's. It's ridiculously hard to make that man smile.

Barry coughs. "And that just might be the weirdest introduction ever, Sherly. There's that smooth talker we've all come to know." He looks a little embarrassed, his face flushed pink. Felicity winces and mouths a, _Sorry_ , at him, and he shrugs, though his face is still pink. "And, just to ease my wounded pride," he continues, "Ricky Pearce threw a desk cactus at me because I wouldn't do his homework. It's not like I was a goof and tripped face-first into one."

Felicity scoffs. "Everyone here _knows_ I suffer from a word vomit disorder, Watson," she replies with a withering glance. She turns to Helena. "Except for you, I guess. I'm sorry—I'd tell you I'm not normally this much of a spaz, but I'd be lying." She holds out her hand, not wanting to. She doesn't want Helena to know her name, but acting weird will just make things more difficult for her. "Felicity Smoak."

She shakes her hand, and it seems just as slimy to Felicity as she expects. "Helena Bertinelli," she says in a smooth, dark voice, her expression sour. "Nice to meet you." She offers a smile, but it almost looks ironic on her face. Helena turns to Oliver. "I don't think I've been properly introduced to the rest of your friends."

Oliver nods, smiles a little. "Sorry, Helena." He motions to each one of them in turn. "Felicity you've already met. That's Tommy, my best friend, and..." He falters as he turns to Barry. "I don't think we've met before." Felicity doesn't think she imagines the way his voice darkens, the way his eyebrows knit together tightly. The last time she saw him do that, she had mentioned Tommy.

Barry holds his hand out, oblivious to the tension in Oliver's shoulders. "Barry Allen," he introduces himself. "I'm an old friend of Felicity's. Nice to meet you, Mr. Queen."

Before the measuring contest can get way out of hand, Tommy swoops in to save the day. "So, Smoaky," he says with that signature tilt of his head, and Oliver's eyes swivel immediately to him, "that's two times I've heard Barry call you 'Sherly.' I demand to know about all embarrassing nicknames so that I can torment you with them later."

Felicity laughs. "Please, it's not embarrassing," she explains. "Childish, maybe, but not the most horrible nickname ever—like 'Smoaky,' for instance." Tommy shoots her a withering look, but the smile lets her know he doesn't mean it. "It's from when we were kids. We grew up reading and watching mysteries together. Sherlock Holmes was my favorite, and I usually figured out the mystery and explained it to him. 'Sherly' is short for 'Sherlock.' And I call him 'Watson.'" She chuckles, thinking about all the times she used that cheesy pun of, "Elementary, my dear Watson." "I'm the one who likes mysteries, and he's the doctor." She puts her elbow in his side. "I think it fits nicely."

Barry laughs, which is the only thing he has that's socially awkward. His laugh is _not_ charming—it's more like the sound of a donkey braying. "Well," he hesitates, "more like the brains and the lagging sidekick, I think, but I'm surprisingly okay with that. And besides, in the futuristic version, I get to be the cyborg. Which makes me infinitely cooler than you."

Felicity snorts, goading him. "Please," she drawls. "You wouldn't be cooler than me if you had ten ice cubes in your pockets." She forgets the audience, and is surprised to hear Tommy laugh again. But she certainly is not surprised to see Helena's eyes narrowed into slits.

"I think a drink would be nice," Helena says to Oliver in that sultry, smooth voice, encouraging him away from the conversation.

He takes the hint. "We need to work the room anyway." He offers a smile that is absolutely fake. "Nice seeing you again, Felicity," he offers before leaving, ignoring Barry's presence.

When she turns to talk to Tommy again, she sees him pining in the direction of Laurel and Carter Bowen, who are now dancing together. "Oh, for God's sake!" she snaps at him, and he jolts. "If you want to do something, go cut in." He gives her a disbelieving look, to which she replies, "Just as long as you don't punch Massive Tool in the face and retain that billionaire charm, girls _love_ it when guys cut in. Go for it and stop pining—you're dampening my whole mood over here."

To her surprise, Tommy leans in and kisses her cheek, causing her to go crimson. "You are a goddess," he says, too serious for his personality, "and I'm not worthy of you." Less seriously he adds a wink and says, "See you in my dreams, Smoaky."

"You don't even deserve me then, Merlyn," she teases back, and then he's off to find Laurel again. Before Barry can start with questions, she holds up a hand. "I'll tell you the story later, but I actually need to make a run to the bathroom." She doesn't give him time to respond before she's making her way to the ladies' room.

She's surprised to find the place empty, but it's all the better for her. Picking up her cell phone, she dials the number she's only called once prior. He's obviously a smart man because he knows to ignore her, and it goes to voicemail (way too fast, so she knows he pressed the "Ignore" button). When she hears the tone, she says into it heatedly, "Hey, asshole. Guess who I just saw dancing with Oliver! Hint: she should probably be in jail right now, if you'd _done your job!_ Call be back when you get this—believe me, you _don't_ want to let me stew."

 

* * *

 

Helena watches Oliver wince for the second time in two minutes as he looks at his phone, and she wonders what he's doing. He made her a promise, and he betrayed her—just the same way her father did. Just the same way Nick did. Just the same way _all_ men do. But then she reminds herself that it's her own fault— _she's_ the one who trusted him, and she _knew_ better. It would have been _one_ thing if things had been awkward with Laurel, his ex, but that went perfectly fine. _This_ , however, is just pushing the line.

He finally looks at her, and she can see the light dawn in his eyes as he realizes something is horribly wrong. "Hey," he says gently, his voice soft in a way that just makes her anger worse. "What's wrong?"

"I never should have trusted you," she hisses at him. They're in a corner of the room where she's sure that they won't make a scene. Because it wouldn't do for things to go public for them. They're not together, and they never will be.

"I'm sorry—" he starts, but she doesn't let him get that far.

"So am I," she snaps. "I never should have listed to you." Her teeth are clenched now, and she knows it's a good thing she's unarmed or he'd have a crossbow arrow piercing his hear right now—it would be too nice for the one he just shot through her. At least she wouldn't let him suffer; she may be a killer, but even she isn't that cruel.

He manages something remotely coherent, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. She doesn't let him speak—this is her turn to talk, and he's not stopping her from saying what she means. "You _know_ what I've been through," she says to him, fighting back the urge to yell. "You told me you would never hurt me."

Oliver bursts out with, "I don't even know what I did wrong!" It's as much of a yell as it can be while whispering, and Helena is surprised to find he genuinely has no idea what he did wrong. Of how he hurt her. And that just infuriates her more.

"So, making me meet the love of your life is—what, exactly, Oliver?" she demands.

He sighs. "Look, Helena," he says, calmer this time. "I didn't know things would get so awkward with Laurel—"

She rolls her eyes. Is he _trying_ to act stupid? "You know damn well I'm not talking about Laurel," comes out of her mouth, and she's surprised by the bitter anger there. She hasn't felt this vindictive toward anyone since Michael died. "I'm talking about Felicity—the cute blonde that stole your attention? Does _she_ ring a bell?" She sees it then—the jealousy, the protectiveness, the entire this-conversation-is-off-limits look he gets to his face whenever someone dares to talk about _her_.

His eyebrows knit together in confusion again. "I'm not in love with Felicity," he says slowly, and Helena can tell he genuinely believes it. But she knows better because now she's seen them together. She knows better than to continue an argument that will go nowhere, so she turns to walk out.

"Hey," he tries again, with a hand on her shoulder.

She recoils immediately. "Don't touch me," she snaps. "I am _done_ talking—now I'm going to take action." She can hear him calling for her behind her as she walks out, but she ignores him because today she's walking out of Oliver Queen's life forever.

But if there's one thing she knows about herself, it's that she's cruel and vindictive—and Oliver _will_ pay for what he did to her.


	11. Online Shopping Assistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity did _not_ place a three a.m. wake-up call, and she resents the Vigilante for assuming otherwise. If he's going to keep this hotel running, he really needs to pull his act together. Wait, wrong AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might be better than the last. I didn't really have most of this planned, but this is the way it worked out. :) It's certainly the longest chapter I've ever written for this series, at just over 4300 words (most of mine are around 3000). I don't know--I'll let you come to your own conclusions about it. If you want to tell me what you think, reviews and comments are much appreciated. But, hey--thanks for reading anyway! :)

Felicity bolts awake at the sound of Saphira barking in her ear.  She's nearly trampled as the dog walks over her and jumps down from the bed to get to the window, tail wagging as she paws at it.  She wines pitifully as she scratches at the window, working herself up into a frenzy. While Felicity's glasses are off, she can make out the silhouette of that figure even when it's blurry.  Now completely awake due in part to the adrenalin rush, she rolls over to get her glasses from the bedside table, and the first thing that comes into focus are the glowing numbers of her digital clock, unhelpfully informing her that it's 3:17AM.

Sighing, she pulls herself up into a sitting position, she pulls herself up from the bed, going to open the window, thinking that tonight was probably a bad night to wear her Star Wars pajamas. (Her pants are covered with cartoon Darth Vader faces, while her shirt shows Han with a guitar and reads "Guitar Solo" below the picture.)  "I know _you_ don't," she says tiredly, drawing the last word into a half-stifled yawn, "but most people have a day job.  A little consideration goes a long way, you know."

"I wouldn't have interrupted your sleep if it wasn't important," is his synthesized reply, and she knows that's as close to an apology as she's going to get.  Saphira interrupts by standing on her back legs and putting her front paws on his leg, and Felicity is amused to see Starling City's feared Vigilante palm her a treat before patting her head.

She yawns again, and then grabs her robe.  "Fine," she says finally, "I'll go start the coffee pot.  I'm going to need caffeine if you expect me to work my usual magic—which, I might add, takes a full eight hours of sleep per night to maintain."

He follows her back into her living area, and she winces as she realizes her papers and documents from the Tempest investigation are sprawled all over her coffee table.  Of course the Arrow, curious thing that he is, immediately goes up to them, reaching for one.  She slaps his hand away.  "Hey, that's QC business.  As in, not yours.  Unless you're Walter Steele, then of course you're welcome to poke around."  He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.  "And no questions.  It's top-secret stuff, and even _I_ don't know all the details."  She frowns, knowing that her high-powered laptop is full of Tempest business, and she grabs her tablet instead.  "You're coming with me to the kitchen—I don't trust you alone in here with my research."

She's surprised when he complies with her, only asking, "What makes you think I don't have a day job?"  He sits at the bar as though he belongs there, elbows resting on the bar casually.  Saphira lies at his feet, and Felicity isn't sure whether to laugh or cry at how bizarre her life is.  She would have laughed if anyone told her she'd one day think that the Arrow looks awfully domestic, but, somehow, he does look as though he belongs right at the bar in her kitchen.

As she adjusts her coffee pot, Felicity replies to his question, "Because you're running-slash-rappelling-slash-sneaking around Starling City at three-seventeen in the morning."  She rolls her eyes.  "Nobody can go infinitely without sleep, and you've been active this entire week.  So, you probably sleep during the day and play superhero by night.  Kind of like a vampire."  She winces at the horrible analogy.  "Well, you know what I mean."

"I don't have fangs," he assures her, and Felicity can't help but laugh because, dear God, the Arrow is starting to make jokes now.  Instead of continuing, he pulls a black arrow that looks nothing like the green ones from the police reports.  "There's a new archer in town, and he's killing people that have already paid Starling City for their crimes.  This is one of his arrows.  If you can get me the purchase records, I can find him."  The end of his sentence turns ominous, and Felicity thinks it isn't going to end happily.

She frowns.  "While I appreciate the confidence boost," she starts, "there's no guarantee that he buys these arrows.  I mean, you clearly don't buy _yours_."  She bites her lip as she realizes her mouth has run away with her again.

His head snaps up, and his mouth is turned down into a frown.  "How do you know that?" he demands, and suddenly the Vigilante doesn't seem so friendly.  Finally Felicity understands again why he's the terror of Starling; his voice sounds like the wrath of the gods when he wants it to.

She swallows hard, but then decides he's overreacting, so she draws herself up to full height and crosses her arms.  "I'm not an idiot," she declares.  "I trust you, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do my research.  I know you want to keep your identity a secret from me—that's fine, by the way—but you can't expect me not to try and connect the dots.  Mysteries are meant to be solved, and you're a mystery.  I've read all the police reports.  I've seen all the arrows they've collected, and I know they don't have serial numbers.  They don't have producer information in the shaft.  So you make them."

"What else do you know?" he asks, and this time he's less confrontational about it.

"I know that you have to be an exceptional archer to fire the way you do," she replies, deciding to share her thoughts with him.  "I know that you also have to fight well in close combat, because Oliver Queen's statement said that you killed all three of those men without firing an arrow.  I know that the last man ran, and that you'd have to be fast to catch him.  I know your friend—the Not-Vigilante, or whatever you choose to call him—has a military background."  She shifts her weight onto one hip.  "And I know that your training isn't military—it's something more."  The corner of his mouth purses in, and she knows she's right about all of it.

"You should stop looking into me," he warns her firmly.  "If my enemies ever learned you knew anything about me, they would use you to get to me."  There's a long, pregnant pause before he finally adds, "I promised to protect the citizens of this city—especially the ones I endanger by allowing them to help me."

She rolls her eyes, frowning.  "Why, that is incredibly sweet and overprotective of you," she replies, her words dripping with sarcasm.  "Look, if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to.  Whatever.  But don't try to make it look like you're trying to protect me when you just don't want me to know."

After a long moment, he finally says, "My... _associate_ thinks it would be better if I didn't involve you any more than I have to."

Felicity waves her hands at him.  "And here we have the honest answer!" she comments, now exasperated.  "That's all you had to say:  the Not-Vigilante doesn't like me.  I'm not offended.  Honestly, I'm not sure I liked him either, but I'm trying to hold out on judgment."

"It's not that," comes the reply, and Felicity looks at him with a silent question across her face.  He looks down at Saphira before finishing the thought.  "He doesn't like that I'm putting you in danger."

She rolls her eyes as the coffee pot finishes.  "It is too early in the morning—or late at night, take your pick—to have this conversation."  She pulls down her second-favorite coffee mug, the one with a robot that looks distinctly like a salt shaker.  It declares in bold letters, "CAFFEINATE!" and she fills it to the brim with black coffee.

The Arrow opens his mouth to speak, but she silences him with her index finger before taking a long, healthy pull of the most ingenious liquid ever discovered by man.  "Now," she says after she finishes, turning on her computer screen, "let me see if I can work my magic."  She tilts her head to the side.  "Would you prefer Grammaryë, or should I go get my wand?"  She winces as she realizes what she asked.  "Never mind.  Nerd humor."

She takes the arrow from the counter top, and he frowns.  "Be careful," he warns, and she rolls her eyes.  Sure, she may not be a ninja like him, but even she can handle an arrow without poking her eyes out.  She examines it carefully, but then she sees what she's looking for.

She squints at the shaft.  "The composite looks like it's patented.  I think I can look this up without breaking the law for once," she comments, but she's already plugging numbers into the US patent records.  Examining her results, she continues, "It looks like it's registered to a company Sagittarius."  She smirks at the joke.

"Or 'the archer,' in Latin," the Vigilante responds, surprising her.

She nods in agreement.  "It is, but it looks like it's owned by a corporation in a corporation in a corporation.  It will take me forever to untangle this mess."  She frowns as she digs deeper.  "And it looks like distribution is managed by a subsidiary called Artemis Distribution Services."  She chuckles at the joke, but the Vigilante seems stumped by this one.  "You know, the goddess in Greek mythology, Artemis?"  She waves a hand in the air.  "She was an archer—goddess of the hunt.  Someone has a sense of humor—and a _lot_ of money."  She pulls up the sales records and is able to tell him, "It looks like the largest orders are sent to this address..."  She trails off, looking for a stack of sticky notes, but they're nowhere to be found, and she holds up an index finger.  "Hold that thought."

Without waiting for a response, she charges into her living room and upends papers and files until she sees a random stack.  As fate would have it, they're lime green, and she rushes back into the kitchen with them, writing down the address.  "Don't get excited about the color," she mutters to him as she writes.  "It's a happy accident—I buy the multicolor packs.  But at least you'll match."  When she finishes, she circles the counter and sticks it to his chest again.  "Go get the evil archer," she demands.

The corners of his mouth twitch upward.  "Thank you, Felicity," he says, as always, again tucking the sticky note inside his jacket.  This time, though, it's followed by the shoulder touch from the last visit—from that intense moment where he said he trusts her.

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters before stifling a yawn.  "My caffeine high is wearing off, so is there anything else you need before you go back to putting arrows in bad guys?  I have to be up in..."—she glances at the nearest clock, and her voice drops in disdain—"two hours."

"That's all I needed," he assures her.  "I'll lock up."  Slowly, so that she knows what he's doing, he puts a hand between her shoulder blades and guides her back toward her bedroom.  About halfway through the living room, he turns off the synthesizer to whistle shrilly at Saphira.  The dog immediately jumps up to scurry after them, and Felicity can hear the synthesizer click back on as he guides both of them back to the bedroom.

The Arrow stands near the window as she stumbles into her bed, haphazardly tossing her glasses onto the side table.  A few seconds later, she's safely tucked back in place, and the Arrow calls from the other side of the room, "Goodnight, Felicity."

"'Night," she mutters back quietly, but a soft chuckle makes her think he heard.

She doesn't even hear the latch click back into place before she's asleep again.

 

* * *

 

Felicity makes sure her favorite coffee mug is filled before she starts the latest project for the department.  She's supposed to be working on top-secret things for Walter again, which apparently comes with a new, quieter office, but the IT department is hopeless without her.  Three days of her doing nothing, and the department is backlogged with chaos again.  She launches into the newest string of code in need of her services, only to be interrupted by a knock at her door.

At first she thinks it's her boss, whom she's about to tell to put his fried circuitboards in some very not-nice places, but then he speaks.  "Hey," he drawls casually, "is this seat taken?"  She looks up to find none other than Tommy Merlyn sprawled across the doorway, leaning against one edge of the doorway with his shoulder against the outside, one hand splayed across to the other side.  Once he sees he has her attention he points with one hand toward the chair for guests sitting behind her, a cheesy grin on his face.

Felicity rolls her eyes, turning back to her computer screen as she replies, "No, and if you sit down, this one will be free, too."  He laughs and she sighs.  "While I usually love your amusing antics, I'm really busy today.  If you're just here to chitchat, kindly get the hell out of my office."

She expects him to leave, but he instead shifts his weight and holds up a fast food sack with a Big Belly Burger logo on it.  "Now is that any way to treat your savior?" he teases, moving to sit down in the empty chair, dropping the paper bag on her desk as he goes.  She swivels in her chair with his movements, a question in her eyes.  "Ollie told me you'd been working overtime this week.  Then he grumbled something about talking to Walter hiring _qualified_ IT personnel for the IT department."  He waves a hand dismissively.  "Anyway, we were running around when he texted you about stopping by during your lunch hour.  Went absolutely nuts when he got your reply, and we went for food."  He points upward.  "I think he's talking to Walter now, actually."

Felicity rolls her eyes.  "That was _completely_ unnecessary," she says, though she's already peeling the paper off of the burger.  She blames the food; it smells amazing, and Big Belly Burger has always been her favorite fast food joint.  "I would have been fine without lunch—it's not the first time, you know."

Tommy holds up a hand to silence her protest.  "First of all," he starts, "I'd recommend against telling Ollie that."  He hesitates now, and Felicity is instantly on edge; anything that causes _Tommy Merlyn_ to hesitate can't be good.  "And it _was_ necessary—I thought you'd be grateful."  He puts emphasis on the words as he repeats, " _Very_ grateful."  The tone lets her know he's teasing, but she's still a little dubious of his intent.

Before he speaks again, Felicity nudges his thigh hard with the toe of her shoe.  "Well," she replies casually, "for future reference, I don't prostitute myself out for anything less than a five-star meal—and I mean three courses, red wine, and a string quartet playing in the background."  It's a joke, even though she manages to pull the line off as though she's discussing the weather, and she's proud to say she pulls it off without blushing.

Tommy stares at her a moment, mouth moving without sound, before he continues, "Good to know.  But, while I _do_ have a proposition for you, it's not _that_ kind of proposition."  He hesitates again, looking out the window.  "I don't know if you know this, but the Queens used to have a Christmas party every year.  It was sort of a Starling City tradition."

Felicity snorts.  "Of _course_ I know about the Queen Christmas Gala," she replies dryly, crossing her legs and using Tommy's thigh as a footrest.  He doesn't seem to mind.  "Every ten-year-old girl on the planet dreams of being invited to the Queens' for Christmas."  She frowns before editing herself.  "Well, _almost_ every girl.  Mostly I just wanted a pet dragon, but I'm getting off-topic.  What about the party?"

Tommy smiles, looking at her again.  "I'm starting to think that off-topic goes along with your conversations, Smoaky," he teases.  "The point is, Ollie wants to do another party this year—apparently he's really missed family Christmases."  He frowns as he thinks about the island, and Felicity can't blame him; she finds herself thinking about Oliver and that island a _lot_ these days.  "Anyway, he's decided to reboot the old tradition of Queen Family Christmas.  And, well, I've found myself in need of a date.  I thought you might want to, um, go together?"  Felicity's eyes widen in surprise, so he barrels on, "I mean as friends.  _Just_ friends.  No strings, no expectations.  No awkward conversations.  And apparently I'm trying to make up for that lack now."

She hesitates, biting at her lip.  "Two things, Tommy," is her reply.  "First, most guys don't invite the Jewish girl to a Christmas party."  She frowns.  "Secondly, there's Laurel.  She already doesn't like me."  She rushes to add, "And that's fine—she doesn't _have_ to like me.  But you like her, and I don't want to get in the middle of whatever's going on between you two."

Tommy chuckles.  "Well, you're already invited—I saw your name on the initial guest list last week."  With emphasis she doesn't understand, he adds, "It was the first one, actually."  He sighs.  "And, well, I think Laurel's coming around.  Do you remember that party last week?"

"When she was dancing with Doctor Massive-Tool?" she replies, not missing a beat.

Tommy actually laughs at that.  "Yeah.  I did as you said," he admits.  "I went over to them and said, 'Hello, Carter.  May I cut in?'  And then we danced."  He grins a cheesy grin.  "Laurel liked that—she said it was romantic, or some other girly crap that I don't quite understand.  Anyway, point is she liked it."  He pauses, looking up at Felicity from under his eyelashes.  "She _really_ liked it," he emphasizes when she doesn't respond.  "She _really_ , _really_ liked it."

"Yeah, I got it," Felicity snaps, waving her hands as her face turns a little red.  "You went back to her place and you did the diddly-doo.  I don't need the details of your sex life, okay, Merlyn?"

He shakes his head, laughing.  "Anyway, the next morning, she got ready for work, and she said again how much she liked that I cut in—'like a gentleman,' she said."  He chuckles.  "So I confessed that it was your idea.  I think Laurel's felt a little insecure about serious relationships ever since things went south with Ollie."  Tommy swallows.  "And, well, I've never known a girl I've called a 'friend' without having sex with her, so I guess she thought that you and I were—"  He hesitates, and she thinks it's amusing that he's the one floundering around the idea of a relationship now.  "Well, _you know_.  But I think she figures that if you're pushing Laurel and I together, you're not trying to tear us apart."  He shrugs.  "I guess—like I've _ever_ understood women."

"One more smart ass comment about women," Felicity threatens teasingly, "and I'm kicking you in the face."  She makes a small gesture with her foot to emphasize the point.

Tommy holds his hands up in mock surrender.  "Anyway, things have been weird between her and Ollie since the trial.  She received an invitation to the party, but she thinks it's probably because of Mrs. Q, not because Ollie actually wanted her there.   So she came up with an excuse why she can't go, and, well,"—he smiles mockingly—"the press would be disappointed if Tommy Merlyn didn't show up with a beautiful woman on his arm.  Laurel actually suggested I ask you, and I think it's a good idea.  It's next week—plenty of time to get a dress."  And, as though he thinks she'll be opposed, he adds, "And you're going to be invited anyway—so you won't even have to be someone's plus one, or mark a plus one.  Ollie _wants_ you there, and I don't think he's going to take no for an answer."

"What the hell," she responds finally.  "I'm invited to a Queen Christmas Gala—I might as well be there on the arm of a playboy billionaire.  If only Judy Sanchez could see me now—she used to think I would grow up to be that crazy cat lady who lives alone."  She frowns.  "What time do you want to pick me up?"

"Anytime, anywhere," he jokes, but sobers quickly.  "It starts at eight on the twenty-fourth, so I figure seven?  The traffic is always a nightmare on those days."

"Sounds good," she agrees easily, then holds out her hand.  "I demand your phone, please."  When he gives her a questioning look, she replies, "You're finally getting your wish, Merlyn—I'm giving you my number."  While he chuckles, she programs her number in his phone, and also looks up his digits to put in hers.  She's about to let the conversation go, but then she remembers something, frowning.  "What kind of dress do I need?"

"Preferably one that shows as much skin as possible," Tommy replies, deadpan, without missing a beat.  Felicity nudges his leg, and he responds seriously this time, "I don't know—the long kind?  I'm not Calvin Klein—I don't know ladies' fashion.  But usually every girl wears a floor-length dress—with a full skirt, I think.  You know, the kind of dress that makes you think long, white gloves need to go with it.  But no long, white gloves.  That's not really something you see."  He looks at her shoes.  "Neither are pandas on flat shoes—don't wear those, or I'll spend the night pretending I don't know you."

Felicity groans in frustration, rolling her eyes, ignoring the dig at her shoes.  "This is like discussing computer engineering with a penguin," she grumbles, which earns her an indignant, "Hey!" from Tommy.  "Oliver has a sister—I'll ask him when he comes by to drag you out of my office."

"I'm here to drag him away so you can finish your work," the man in question replies from her doorway, and Felicity spins awkwardly to face him.  "What did you want to ask me?" he continues, and Felicity can see the smile on his face is tight and certainly not genuine, judging by the way it doesn't reach his eyes.  She doesn't understand why he's so upset, but she thinks he's being a little ridiculous.  He leans against her doorway similar to the way Tommy did earlier, but something about his hands in the pockets of his jeans and one leg crossed over the other takes her breath away for a moment.

"Oh, just proper attire for the Christmas party... thing," she replies belatedly, throwing her hands about haphazardly.  When his eyebrows raise, Felicity continues, looking between the two men, "Merlyn told me I was invited?"

Oliver turns a glare on his best friend.  "And Tommy should have also told you that I wanted to deliver the invitation in person. I didn't want you to hear about it secondhand."  His eyes narrow as he pulls himself away from the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest.  "Didn't you need to go check on your car?" he adds, in an obvious dismissal.

Tommy raises his hands in defeat, rising from his chair.  "This is what I have to put up with," he complains to Felicity.  "The man has no humor in his soul.  Well, he does, but when anyone mentions _you_ , my friend is suddenly replaced with an angry bear that _wants_ to maul people."  In a move that makes her blush to her toes, he swoops in and kisses her on the cheek, then takes the time to give her a wink.  Oliver's fist clenches and the smile falls off his face, but Tommy doesn't seem to notice; he just waves haphazardly over his shoulder.  "See ya later, Smoaky," he calls as he leaves, and there's still too much tension in the room even after he's cleared it.

Oliver doesn't miss a beat; he holds out the invitation to her.  "I wanted to deliver this in person," he admits, and she can't help but think of how hard it must be for him to host a Christmas party without his father there.  She takes it, and there's a long pause before he adds, "I'd like you to come."

Without hesitation, she opens the envelope methodically, making Oliver smile as she tries to open it as efficiently as possible without ripping the envelope.  "That better not be judgment I'm feeling," she mutters as she opens it, reading the standard invitation text.  Thankfully, someone—probably Thea—has thought of everything, because there's a notecard on attire for the evening.  She takes out the RSVP card and fills it out, marking the guest status she's always thought of as the "forever alone" box with pride, knowing she has a date anyway.  She tosses it back to Oliver, and he catches it gracefully.  "Just so you don't have to spend the two days it takes to mail this worrying about it," she quips, and he gives her a withering look, even though a smile sits underneath.  "And thank you, by the way, for the food."  He seems surprised when she mentions it, and she rolls her eyes.  "Helpful hint?  Don't ever tell your darkest secrets to Merlyn—that man sings like a caged canary."

He just offers an enigmatic smile in return.  "I tell my secrets to someone much more deserving of my trust," is his cryptic remark, and he leaves before she can ask.


	12. User Interface Calibration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity may start off the night on Tommy Merlyn's arm, but she ends up with another guy. Hint: not Barry Allen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter. I'm not completely satisfied with the way this turned out. It's weird because I was actually looking forward to this chapter, but then I started writing it. :/ I don't know what happened, but I can't think about how to fix it. Anyway, I hope you like it, and that it meets all of your expectations. Reviews and comments are appreciated, but thanks for reading! :)

Felicity tries desperately to contain the rush of excitement she gets from riding in a limo with _Tommy Merlyn_ on the way to the Queen Christmas Gala.  It's an experience that most don't have, so of course she's excited.  As, apparently, is Tommy; the first word out of his mouth when she opened her door was a surprised, " _Wow_."  Then he made a big show of looking around her and into the apartment.  "Sorry there, Bombshell Barbie, I'm looking for a friend of mine—she goes by the name of Smoaky?"  She supposes that means she cleans up well, but doesn't really see what the fuss is about.

She couldn't bear to give up the vibrant fuchsia lipstick she usually wears, her one semblance of normalcy in her current attire.  Her hair is down, pinned over one shoulder, and she actually has her contacts in for a change.  Large, sparkling earrings with stones matching her dress hang delicately, surrounded by diamonds.  Her dress isn't much; it's just a number she picked up for eighty bucks at the nearest thrift store because she fell in love with it.  As instructed in the notecard, she picked a full-length dress with a somewhat full skirt (there are a few layers to it, anyway).  It's strapless with a sweetheart neckline, the material gathered in folds through the bodice and left simple and plain through the skirt.  The only real embellishments on it are the corseted back and the rhinestone star-burst folding across her left side.  It did take help from her only female friend to get the back laced up, but she thinks it was well worth it.  And she's _still_ trying to convince herself that the color is completely coincidental.

After all, emerald green is a _festive_ , Christmas-y color.  And it has _nothing_ to do with the Vigilante at all.

The limousine pulls up in front of the Queen mansion, and Tommy scurries to exit so that he can help her out of the vehicle, and for a moment Felicity feels like a fairytale princess.  The press is already swarming, of course, and Felicity feels kind of like a movie star the way they start snapping photographs (though she knows it's because of Tommy and not her).  He guides her into the house without the normal remarks he usually makes about his date, and their invitations are checked at the entrance hall.

Felicity is stunned into momentary silence as she realizes the woman standing in the hall welcoming guests is none other than Moira Queen.  She looks almost regal in the champagne gown she wears; it's both elegant and understated in an old money sort of way.  Of course, the half-million dollar string of diamonds around her neck doesn't hurt the look, either.  She greets the couple ahead of Tommy and Felicity with practiced aplomb and charm.

She turns the pair then, and she stops to hug Tommy in an overly dramatic way.  "I'm glad you could make it, Tommy," she says, her voice rich but soft, and her tone is most definitely sincere.  She pulls away, but her hands still remain on his arms.  "I know my children will be glad to see you, too."  She looks to Felicity, appraising her carefully.  "And you should introduce me to your date."

Tommy winces, frowning.  "She's not my date," he corrects immediately, which Felicity thinks is surprisingly brave.  "She's a friend.  Mrs. Q, this is Felicity Smoak.  She's a friend of mine—and Ollie's.  Smoaky, this is Moira Queen—Ollie's mom.  And mine, too, kind of—she practically raised me."

"Nice to meet you," Felicity offers nicely, not sure whether to shake hands or wave or whatever rich people do.

To her surprise, Moira responds, "It's nice to finally meet you, Felicity—I've heard a lot about you."  She turns scarlet as Tommy shoots her an I-told-you-so look. "All good things, I promise," she adds when she sees the look on Felicity's face.  "My children are quite fond of you, it seems."

Finding her normal in the conversation, Felicity replies, "Well, I guess I should think about a career as a con woman, then.  I'm usually just the odd girl that gets funny looks because of outdated pop culture references."

Both Moira and Tommy laugh, though Felicity didn't really mean it to be funny.  "It was nice meeting you, Felicity," she starts, "but I should probably continue greeting my guests.  I hope you both have a wonderful time.  And Merry Christmas."

They both murmur their best wishes back, and they actually manage to step into the party.  The Queen mansion is a vision of the perfect holiday home, with live garland draped down the staircase and around the lit fireplace.  A Christmas tree sits in every room, and Felicity feels like she's stepped into a winter wonderland.  "Whoa," she breathes to Tommy.  "The Queens sure know how to throw a Christmas party, don't they?"

Tommy chuckles and moves to respond at the same time that another voice calls, "Tommy!"  They both turn toward the direction of the voice, and Felicity is pleasantly surprised to find Thea in a stunning red dress, making her way toward them.  She hugs him, and Felicity thinks Thea might have a bit of a crush on Tommy Merlyn—why, she'll never know.  "I knew you'd make it."  Her expression sours as she looks at Felicity, and she realizes the younger girl genuinely doesn't recognize her.  "Who's the flavor of the week?" she asks snidely, and Felicity is again reminded that Thea Queen is _not_ someone she wants as her enemy.

"You know, Thea," Felicity responds instantly, "I'm getting really tired of you mistaking my intentions.  First Oliver, then Merlyn here.  It's going to give me a complex."

The change in Thea's facial expression is comical; she switches between surprise, indignation, realization, before finally settling shortly on embarrassment.  But Felicity is the one who is surprised when Thea hugs her, much the same way she had Tommy.  Felicity's arms finally wrap around the girl, after the initial shock wears off.  "Oh, Felicity, I'm so sorry!" Pulling back, she continues dryly, "You dress up nice—start poking fun at Kimberly's dress with a glass of red in your hand, and no one will know you weren't born with blue blood in your veins."  She notices Felicity's attire for the first time.  "And nice dress—where did you get it?  Doesn't look like anything I've seen off of the new fall lines."

Felicity snorts.  "I would almost bet that it didn't make a fashion line anywhere."  When Thea frowns, Felicity whispers, "There's a thrift store on Twenty-Fourth that has some really good things."

Thea looks her up and down, blinking and seemingly appalled that it's from a thrift store.  "No kidding," she says finally, appraising the dress again.  "You'll have to take me there sometime."  She frowns between Felicity and Tommy.  "Wait, what are you two _doing_ , coming together?  You're dating?"  Leaning in, she asks Felicity, "Does Ollie know about this?  Because you know he's going to be pissed, right?"

Felicity turns pink, and she's starting to lose count of how many times someone in the Queen family has made her blush in the past few weeks.  "No, no, no.  _No_ ," is her immediate response.  "Merlyn's all wound up in Gorgeous Laurel."  Thea frowns at the reminder, and Felicity's certain that there's something there.  "We're just friends.  And he's saving me from being that awkward wallflower in the back."  She shudders.  "Or worse—following that one person I know around all night like a lost dog in need of a friend."

Thea waves at someone in the background before turning back to Felicity with a smile that sets her nerves on edge.  She starts sauntering off, adding as she turns sideways in a suggestive voice, "Well, I don't think Ollie would mind."  Before Felicity can do anything other than flush more deeply, she's gone, and Felicity is starting to think that abrupt exits after provocative statements are encoded on the Queen family's genes.

As though he's ignored the entire conversation, Tommy only picks two glasses of red wine off of a waiter's serving tray with ease.  He hands one to her, then sips from his own before he asks casually, "So, do you dance?"

Felicity has to look over at him to make sure he's not joking.  "Not very well," she admits finally.  "The last time I danced was at my uncle's wedding when I was eight.  It was the eight-year-old version of ballroom dancing—I put my feet on my uncle's shoes, and he moved us around."

Tommy frowns.  "And what about prom?" he asks, incredulous.  "Any dances in high school?  College?  My fraternity had a formal night."

Felicity rolls her eyes.  "Of course you were a frat boy," she drawls, and he seems not to understand her lack of surprise.  "Anyone with boobs can get a frat boy to do anything.  Sort of like the drunk-college-kid version of an Achilles heel."  Hesitant now, she adds, "And I didn't do prom.  Nobody ever asked me in freshman or sophomore year.  Barry and I could have gone together junior year, but we decided formal wear was overrated."  She doesn't add that neither of them could muster up the money that year, since their jobs didn't pay well and they had just blown their savings on technology.  She laughs with nostalgia.  "Barry had me convinced senior year that we needed to go to prom—and we were going to.  I had a dress, he rented a tux—the whole works.  And we went out to eat, and, well, we chickened out.  Ended up sneaking a bottle of cheap wine from the house and drinking on the Merlyn Memorial Bridge."  She stops as she realizes that Rebecca Merlyn was probably Tommy's mother, but rushes past to cover it.  "In all that formal wear, too."

Tommy chuckles.  "I never pegged you for a rebel in high school," he comments, laughing.  "We'll have to make up for all that lost dance time tonight—and you won't get by with standing on my toes, especially in _those_ heels."

She frowns.  "Yeah, that's something I don't recommend," she replies easily.  "I'm a klutz.  I don't dance because it's not a good idea to give me an opportunity to trip, fall, and step on people's toes."  Rolling her eyes, she adds, "Literally, on that last one."

Tommy rolls his eyes before dragging her off to the dance floor as though it's the simplest thing in the world.  She's stiff at first because she's terrified of stepping on his toes, but, after a few confident steps, she find herself enjoying the experience.  Tommy is particularly careful to keep things proper between them, his hand sitting high on her waist and plenty of space between them.  It's a nicety that she doesn't expect, but she does appreciate it.  She appreciates it so much, in fact, that they end up dancing five songs together, and Felicity is surprised at how long it lasts with complete silence.

"Not so bad, is it?" he remarks with a wink, as if reading her thoughts, and Felicity rolls her eyes.

"Well, I'm not wishing I'm on the planet of the Ood," she allows, then groans.  "I need Jake to mute me the same way he did Penelope's mom."  She makes a face.  "And I'm doing it again."

Tommy laughs.  "Are you ever going to explain those, or are Ollie and I supposed to just draw our own conclusions?" he asks, and suddenly he's brave enough to twirl her across the dance floor.

"Smooth moves, Merlyn," she comments dryly.  "And, in answer to your question, you're supposed to figure it out yourself.  The first one is from a fifty-year old British sci-fi show that's still on air.  You should know that one."  She frowns.  "The other, however, is a reference to a somewhat-unknown movie called _Penelope_.  Which everyone should know, but no one does.  It's an awesome movie."  She teases him by adding, "One you should watch with Laurel—girls love those ooey-gooey fairytale romances."

Tommy opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted when a voice asks from behind Felicity, "May I cut in?"  She jumps about a foot in the air at Oliver's voice, and Tommy turns them slightly so that Felicity can see Thea is with him.  With a plotting look on her face.  And instantly, the blond knows that whatever is happening, it's all _entirely_ Thea Queen's fault.  The saying, "With friends like that, who needs enemies?" comes to mind as she takes in the mischievous smile on the brunette's face.  Clearing his throat hesitantly, Oliver continues, "Thea has wanted to dance with you all night, Tommy,"—he smiles casually—"and I'm tired of hearing her whine."  It only earns him a slap from his sister.

Tommy hesitates, probably because he knows that, of the people in this room, Felicity's network is limited only to the three people standing around her.  As if sensing his friend's hesitation, he says easily, "I was just thinking about leaving the party for a while.  Would you like to join me?"  Without waiting for a response, he offers her his arm, and she doesn't hesitate to take it.  She's surprised when her fingers meet muscle—Oliver must be more muscular than his attire lets on.

"That sounds nice," she agrees, and she sees Thea's triumphant smile before they start to leave.  Felicity rolls her eyes, already knowing that Thea Queen is a force to be reckoned with.

 

* * *

 

"I'm surprised—I haven't seen you on the dance floor all night," Felicity comments to Oliver as they make their way up the stairs.  He tries not to focus too much on the sensation of her hand on his bicep, but not for the usual reasons.  Typically, he doesn't like it when people touch him, but he doesn't seem to mind when Felicity is involved.  He tries not to think about why, exactly, that is; he's certain that line of thinking would only end badly.

"I have a confession to make," he responds casually.  He almost fakes a smile but then realizes he doesn't have to—Felicity doesn't seem to mind that he's not always the Oliver Queen the rest of the world has come to expect.  "I tell everyone I don't remember how to dance."  At her curious glance, he adds, "I don't like the attention."  Felicity chuckles, and the genuine smile on her face makes him think again how beautiful she looks, and somehow the thought slips out.  "You look beautiful tonight," he starts, then quickly tacks on a, "by the way."

He isn't surprised to see her blush, especially after the last time she paid him a compliment.  "Thank you," she responds a little shyly.  "It's been a nice party—Tommy said this was your idea?"

Oliver can't help the frown that plays across his face when she mentions Tommy.  He may be Oliver's best friend, but Tommy Merlyn has always been trouble—and always will be.  Something doesn't sit right with Oliver when she dares mention him, and he knows he doesn't want to address it just quite yet.  He tells himself he's just protective because of the impossible situation he's put her in with the Vigilante.  "It was," he affirms slowly.  Musing, he adds, "I wanted to do something traditional for Christmas—I didn't exactly get a chance to celebrate over the past five years."  Frowning now, he adds, "That's why Thea made that scene earlier.  She's worried because I haven't talked to her about... about what happened."  Even now, he can't really bring himself to think about it.  "She knows I don't want to talk to her—or Mom—about what happened, so she thinks I need a nudge in your direction."

Felicity smiles knowingly.  "She's just trying to help her brother," she explains gently.  "I think Thea means well, but I don't think she understands that those experiences aren't exactly something you want to talk about to just anyone."  She bites her lip, hesitating before throwing out, "But, if you ever do need someone to talk to, I don't mind listening.  I'm a pretty good listener.  Most of the time.  When I'm not babbling."  She frowns self-deprecatingly.  "Like I am now."

Oliver can't contain an amused chuckle.  She never ceases to surprise him; the way she's always there for him—either as technical support for the Vigilante or as a friend to Oliver Queen—is a rare quality in his world.  "Thank you," he replies sincerely, knowing that she's the first one he'll try to talk to when the time comes.  "I'll keep that in mind."

She looks around, clearly realizing for the first time that they've long since moved into another wing of the house.  "This is new," she comments with just a touch of hesitation.

At the same time, they reach their destination, and he responds by simply opening the door.   She gasps in surprise, and he explains, "When I was at your apartment a few weeks ago, I noticed you had several bookcases full of classics.  We have some first editions and things here, and I thought you might appreciate them more than Thea and I do."

She immediately goes for the shelves with glass doors covering them—to the signed books and first editions in the library.  She crouches down, running her fingers along the glass.  Finally, it stops, and Oliver joins her to find her staring at a signed, first edition copy of _Tarzan of the Apes_.  "That's an odd choice," he comments as he crouches down next to her to read the title.  "Are you a fan?"

She turns her head, seemingly surprised to see him in such close proximity, but there's something about her that always makes him forget the boundaries he's set.  "Of _course_ I'm a fan," she replies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.  "Everyone loves Edgar Rice Burroughs.  And _Tarzan_ is a pretty incredible book—it's about a man who lives his life in the wild, and now the everyday reality that people in his time face is now the novelty.  He's taken away from everything he ever knew, and he has to learn to survive in a completely foreign environment."  In a barely audible whisper, she adds, "It's something I can relate to."

It's almost eerie how well she manages to sum him up without even talking about him.  And he knows all too well why she relates to the struggle of the book—after all, he's the one who has upended her world all too well over the last few months.  But he can better understand the point she's making now, and he wishes he had actually read it.  Without hesitation, he opens the case and hands it to her.  "You should take it," he insists.  "No one here has ever really appreciated it."

Felicity takes a few steps back.  "Are you kidding?  That book has to be an early edition—it's probably worth thousands of dollars.  And I don't think your family would like you giving gifts like this to random people."

He wants nothing more than to tell her that it's nothing compared to what she's given him over the past few months, but there's no way of saying that without mentioning his Vigilante work.  This time, he folds her hands around the book and insists, "Merry Christmas."  He remembers how she mentioned she was Jewish the first time he met her—as the Arrow—but he thinks it would be too suspicious to know the truth without her telling Oliver Queen.  Still, the lie burns his throat, even as he forces a smile over it.

"I'm Jewish," she blurts, then bites her lip.  "It's probably not the best time to mention that," she adds after a long pause.

Oliver stifles a chuckle.  "Well, then, Happy Hanukkah," he replies easily.  When she still seems worried, he adds, "Felicity, that book has been untouched for as long as I've been alive.  My parents didn't buy it—they inherited it.  And no one in the Queen family will ever really appreciate it.  Books are meant to be read and cherished.  I know you'll do both."

"Thank you," she says finally.  She opens her mouth to say more, but then her eyes focus on something over Oliver's shoulder.

He turns to find Digg standing there in the doorway, his face as expressionless as always.  Oliver bites down a flash of irritation as he asks, "Something wrong, Mr. Diggle?"

He raises an eyebrow, but only replies, "Your contractor is on the phone, Mr. Queen—he says it's urgent."

Oliver knows that expression, that careful wording.  New events are in need of the Arrow.  He turns back to Felicity, grimacing more for his sake than hers.  "I'm sorry," he says, "but I have to take this."  He hesitates before reaching out to touch her upper arm.  "Goodnight, Felicity."

"Goodnight," she calls softly behind him as he turns away and exits the room, Diggle beside him.

"This better be important," Oliver growls at the older man, trying to curb his irritation.  It isn't Diggle's fault that villains suddenly decided to interrupt Oliver's schedule.

"Wouldn't interrupt your date otherwise," Diggle responds, a well-hidden almost smile on his face.  Serious again, he replies, "I think you're going to want to see this, Oliver.  It's not good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder that you can follow my tumblr page [here](http://thatmasquedgirl.tumblr.com/). I've started a new place for fanfiction updates, too, and you can see it [here](http://masquedmayhem.tumblr.com/). If you want to stay up-to-date with my fanfiction posts, that's the place to go! Thanks again for reading! :)


	13. System Rescue and Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity wants to spend the night at home, but the Arrow insists on a moonlit rendezvous that's not as romantic as it sounds. Unless you like dumpsters, in which case it's quite romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, I love this chapter. :) Things really start to heat up in this one—both the plot _and_ the tension. *evil grin* It was fun for me, but probably agony for you all. :P I hope you enjoy it—it was incredibly fun to write. :) If you want to leave a review, much appreciated, but, well, if you just want to read, much appreciated. ;)

Felicity sighs as she sinks down into her couch sideways, flexing her sore feet as they fall across the cushions.  The party was nice—and she appreciated Oliver's invitation—but now she remembers why she doesn't wear those shoes anymore.  Saphira happily lies down on top of Felicity's feet as they both settle in for a restful remainder of the night.  Sure it's technically morning—after midnight, so it's officially Christmas—but Felicity has always been somewhat of a night owl.

Felicity picks up her new (well, new-to-her) copy of _Tarzan of the Apes_ , settling in for a long night of reading.  The present came as a surprise, but Oliver was so insistent about giving her a gift that she couldn't refuse.  She starts to change her mind, however, when she opens the cover and finds it signed by Edgar Rice Burroughs himself.  That suspicion is further confirmed when she realizes that there's only one copyright date of 1914, making it a first edition.  She decides she's going to give it back to him—after she's done reading, of course.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can still see the green dress pooled on the floor of her bedroom, and she decides she'll pick it up later.  For now, she's just enjoying the quiet comfort of her Doctor Who pajamas.  The pajamas are navy with blue police call box TARDISes all over them, and her shirt is black with three salt-shaker-like Dalek robots on it.  The one in the middle has on a beige tweed coat, a red bowtie, and a red fez; the other two feature a long, multicolor striped scarf and paper 3D glasses, respectively.  Over the top of the trio, the word "IMPERSONATE!" is written in large, bold letters.

She's about halfway through the book when her cell phone rings, and she jolts as the Batman theme song starts playing.  She knows that ringtone, and she always answers it with a certain amount of trepidation.  Sure enough, the caller ID reads "Arrow" in big, bold letters.  She answers it by saying, "It's not like to you to call to say 'Merry Christmas'—"  She cuts off, completely changing her train of thought.  "If you celebrate Christmas, that is.  It seems to be the general assumption, but as a practicing Jew, I find it makes conversation awkward sometimes.  Especially when—"

" _Felicity_ ," he snaps, his voice barely above a whisper.  That's the one thing Felicity likes about him, she thinks—he never raises his voice to her.  Sure, they've had some heated confrontations in the past, but she's the one who does all the yelling.  Still, she notices that there's something not right about his voice, even under the synthesizer.  "I need your help," he declares flatly, which fills her with dread.  He's never begged before, and that scares her.

Still, she covers it with a dry, "Who or what do you want looked up, tracked down, or hacked?"  She expects a chuckle on the other end of the line, but it doesn't come, and she realizes the situation must be grave.  "Oh God, what kind of a mess have you gotten yourself into this time?"

"I'm outside the warehouse on the news," he replies weakly, and she thinks he's probably injured.  Immediately, she rises from the chair and scurries into the room, where she grabs the first pair of jeans she sees.  Saphira follows behind, barking until Felicity shushes her.  "The Dark Archer took hostages so that I would show up.  We fought."  He pauses, and she knows it's because he doesn't want to say he was defeated.  "You're the closest person to my location that I can count on."  He gives her the address for efficiency's sake.  "How fast can you be here?"

She trades out her pajama pants for the jeans, holding her cell phone between her cheek and her shoulder.  "I think I can make it in a five-minute drive," she says, not really paying attention to her words.  "I'm getting dressed now, so I'll be leaving just as soon as I slip on some shoes and a bra."  Her mind catches up to her mouth, and she groans.  "Which you didn't need to know.  Just ignore me, please."

He does so with practiced ease.  "On the west side of the building, there's a dumpster.  I'll be there."  He hesitates.  "The building is crawling with police.  Be careful."

"Okay, I'm headed out now," she replies, grabbing her keys from the table beside her door as she slips her feet into her panda flats.  She nudges Saphira back into the apartment as she tries to exit, too.  "You're the lucky one this time, sweetie," she mutters to the dog as she shuts and locks the door.

" _What?_ " the Arrow asks, and Felicity realizes he's still on the line.

She cringes.  "No, not you!" she answers quickly.  "I was talking to Saphira—that's the name of my dog-slash-pet dragon.  Why do I even bother speaking?  Anyway, I'll see you in about five minutes."  Without waiting for a response, she terminates the call, already bounding down the stairs.

It takes her only a few steps to get to her car once she makes it down to the parking garage.  The key practically flies into the ignition, and Felicity peels out of the parking lot as quick as she can.  Each second feels like an eternity as she makes her journey through the side streets and back ways to find the Arrow.  Adrenalin courses through her veins, and it feels like she's been driving for hours when she shows up.  Felicity is sure to park a block or two down the street; the Arrow wasn't kidding when he said the police are swarming.  The entire building is cordoned off with crime scene tape, and she realizes she's about to break into a crime scene for _the Arrow_ —the same man she used to think was a menace to society.  Oh, how the times have changed.

She braces herself, slipping under the crime scene tape carefully and scurrying toward the lone dumpster behind the building.  She's surprised to see absolutely nothing there, and she spends far too much time looking around.  She's about to call, when, abruptly, she's pushed sideways onto the ground.  She expects to fall hard on her shoulder, but a arm wraps around her waist stops her fall.  She can feel him pressed against her back, and she reacts instantly when his gloved hand falls over her mouth.  Without thinking, she aims a kick at what she hopes is his shin.  A groan sounds in response, and she hears a small, electronic sound before, "Felicity, it's me."

Before she can make the connection, he removes his hand from her mouth.  The other around her waist moves to her elbow, and he pulls her up as he crouches in front of her, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.  "Are you all right?" he asks quietly, his hand falling on her shoulder again.

She pushes a strand of hair behind one ear before slapping his hand away.  "You scared the _hell_ out of me!" she proclaims.  "Next time you're on your own, buddy, if that's how you treat your rescuers."

"You surprised me," he says simply, just before wincing as he pulls his hand away.

She notices the black shaft in his shoulder, and she reaches toward it.  "Is that an arrow?" she whispers, already knowing the answer.  She carefully feels around the wound, leaning closer as she does so, and she can see the tip of the arrow sticking through the other side.  She gags as she realizes that thing passed _all the way through his shoulder_.  "Oh God, that has to hurt."

"I've had worse," he tries to assure her, though she doesn't find it very comforting.  "Can you help me up?"

Felicity stands, then tries to pull him into a standing position, but, Good Lord, is the man heavy.   Somehow they manage to stand, his leg turning at an awkward angle.  Without a word, she slings his good arm over her shoulder and starts half-supporting, half-dragging him out of the crime scene area.  She vaguely realizes she forgot her coat at home as a biting wind cuts across the skin left exposed by her short-sleeved shirt.

She must shiver because the Arrow asks her, "Where's your coat?"  She's not sure she likes the disapproval in his voice—it's not like she answers to him, or that her health should be any of his concern.

"Left it," she replies shortly as she supports part of his weight.  She's just really too small to be of any assistance, but she's trying since she knows he really didn't have a choice.  "I didn't think to grab it."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a small, weary smile play across his lips.  "Under different circumstances, I'd offer you mine."  The thought is laughable; as if he'd risk revealing his identity for some sort of misguided attempt at chivalry.  But, then again, Felicity thinks she might not _want_ to know who he is.  She sees him as some sort of hero—the façade would most definitely crack if she saw the person he was beneath the hood and the mask.  People are flawed, and she'd probably be disappointed if she knew.

They reach the car then, and she unlocks before opening the passenger side.  But then she realizes the problem of the arrow stuck in his shoulder.  "Um, no offense," she starts slowly, "but I don't exactly own this car.  Something makes me think that holes caused by arrows aren't covered in my lease."

In response, he only unzips his tight-fitting jacket, exposing a dark shirt of some kind underneath.  He reaches toward the small of his back and pulls out a very illegal switchblade knife, flicking it open.  "Cut the point off," he instructs, showing a surprising level of trust by handing her the knife, handle extended.  "Don't pull the shaft out, unless you think your lease has a clause for bloodstains."

She gives him an odd look before turning him slightly.  "You have a weird sense of humor, you know that?  I've heard about morticians' humor, but no one ever warned me about vigilante humor."  He chuckles, giving her the opening to slice off the point of the arrow with the knife.  He tenses slightly as the shaft pulls with the action.  "I'm sorry it ruined your jacket," she continues as she turns him back and examines the fletching sticking out in the front, shoving his head away when he tries to see what she's doing.  "I hope you have the number of a good tailor—and I don't mean in the same way you had Adam Hunt's number."  Another chuckle, and she cuts the other end.  He groans this time when it takes him by surprise.  "Sorry," she adds quietly, pushing the button on the knife handle and swinging it back into a safe position before handing it to him.

He opens his mouth to ask, but she deftly avoids the question by saying, "Get in the car before someone sees you standing here."  She's amazed to see him comply, and he manages to pull himself across the backseat, making sure to stretch out his injured leg and keep his shoulder away from the seat.

Once she climbs into the passenger seat, he carefully places something on the seat, and she recognizes it as the simple black, long-sleeved shirt that he had on underneath his jacket.  "Fever's starting to set in," he says by way of explanation, and in her rearview mirror she sees that his jacket is already back in place.  But as he zips it up, head down to help mask his features under the hood, she can see the hint of a tattoo in black ink—she's able to make out some sort of star motif in the darkness, just below where the arrow pierced.  "You might as well put it on."  She realizes that she's shaking, and she knows his concerned frown won't leave until she does as he asks.  She pulls it over her head, and it easily dwarfs her; she has to push the sleeves up.  She expects the thin material to be of little use, but it's some sort of thermal—probably expensive—and she feels a little warmer even before she turns the ignition.

"Thank you," she murmurs.  "You know, if you weren't the terror of Starling City, I'd call that sweet.  As it is, I'll call it surprisingly thoughtful."

"Does every IT girl learn how to work an illegal knife, or is that a specialty?" he asks as she turns the key and fastens her seatbelt, sounding pretty normal despite the pain he must be feeling.

"We all have skills," she replies casually, leaning over to her glove compartment and digging through its contents.  "You can do ninja-like stealth things and shoot arrows with accuracy.  I can tear down your life half-asleep and without getting out of bed."  She finds what she's looking for in the glove box as she pulls up to a red light.  "And—fun fact—I also attended a public school through junior high.  You learn a lot about weapons by being an eighth grader in the Glades, my friend."

She throws back the bottle she found, and he catches it with ease, unsurprisingly.  He stares at it a moment before asking, "What's this?"

She rolls her eyes.  "It's a bottle of ibuprofen," she informs him.  "I know you're in pain—it's all I've got, though.  And, as an added bonus, they don't mess with your head like some of the other options."  She hears the top of the bottle pop off and a few pills rattle out, letting her know he's choosing to take some.

After a very long moment, he passes her a phone— _his_ phone.  "I don't think I'm going to be conscious much longer.  Could you call my associate and arrange a place to meet?"  It's a question, but she knows she can't exactly refuse this far into the adventure.

Without answering, she pulls the car over and scrolls through his contacts.  Without a name for his associate, she thinks it will be hard, but she finds he has a total of four names in his contact list:  "Associate," "Detective," "Investigator," and "Technical Assistance."  She actually smiles when she sees her number listed under the last one, surprised by how sentimental he is to use her exact words.  _Don't hesitate to call when a little technical assistance could save your life._  Filing the information away for later, she calls the "Associate."

He picks up on the first ring.  "How did things go?" is his question, his voice guarded but not masked like on the Vigilante's phone.  It sounds familiar, but she's not interested in who he is right now.  She has a severely injured vigilante in her backseat, after all—and she somehow thinks the cops won't understand that she's just trying to do her civic duty.

Remembering the built-in synthesizer, she runs through some settings and turns it off for the time being.  "Um, probably not as good as planned," she replies.  "Before you hang up, let me explain.  My name is Felicity.  I'm not sure if you know who I am—"

"Of course I know who you are, Miss Smoak," he responds immediately, his voice surprisingly calm.  Then Felicity realizes he's trying to keep her calm in case she's freaking out.  "What's happened?"

"I don't know," she admits, rushing through her explanation.  "Our boy just called me out of nowhere.  He has an arrow through his shoulder and a bunged-up knee, but other than that, I don't know.  He's not bleeding, though—well, at least that I can tell."  She takes a deep breath before slowing down.  "He told me to call you.  I can drop him off, if you tell me where."

"Where are you?" is the immediate response.

"I'm on Twenty-Second," she answers.  "I can probably get him up to my apartment if you want to meet there—I'm only a few blocks away."  There are no renters in the apartments neighboring hers, so she knows it will be quiet—if she can drag his ass up the stairs.  "Or, if you can think of a better place, I'm open to suggestions."

"Two blocks deeper into the Glades from your apartment building," he says immediately, confirming her suspicions that he's the Not-Vigilante.  "The old steel factory is abandoned.  There's a truck route behind it, and the gate is broken.  Follow it through and you'll reach an old semi docking point.  I'll meet you there."  Without waiting for her response, he terminates the call, and she pulls back on the road after slipping the phone absently into one of her jeans pockets.

The drive is somewhat quiet and lonely, and she questions her own sanity about halfway through.  She doesn't know who the guy she spoke to is, and it's a _very_ isolated place to be if things go wrong.  Still, she has the Arrow with her and, injured or no, she'd rather have him with her than to be alone.  Wrestling with her own thoughts, she follows the narrow path back.  Once she sees the semi docks, she flashes her lights twice before turning them off.

She jostles the Arrow's good knee to get him awake, and he leans forward immediately before groaning.  "We're here, hotshot," she says quietly, eyes still focused ahead.  She sees a figure in a black sweatshirt, hood hanging over his head, approaching, and she panics.  "Please tell me that's your friend," she says with a quaver in her voice.

"That's him," he agrees, moving to open the car door.  Felicity quickly follows suit and moves to help him out of the car.  He stumbles a bit as he exits—and, in turn, she stumbles, too—but they somehow manage to stay upright.  "You okay?" he asks softly once they're moving toward the Arrow's associate again.  Then, reaching his injured arm across him with a wince, he pulls the collar of the long-sleeved shirt up from where it slipped down her shoulder.  "You look warmer."

"I'm fine," she assures him.  "I can handle a little cold weather.  And you shouldn't be concerned about anyone who _doesn't_ have an arrow in their shoulder."

His friend reaches them then, and the Arrow manages to stand up on his own for a moment.  "You didn't sign up for this," he says flatly.  "Thank you for tonight."  She waves him off, looking away, but he takes her chin in his fingers and tilts her head toward him again.  "I mean it," he says carefully.  His eyes are too intense for a moment, and she wonders what he's thinking.

The moment becomes thick with tension she doesn't want to analyze, so she pulls his phone out of her pocket and holds it up between them.  "Here's your phone," she says abruptly, holding it up between them.  "I don't want to accidentally steal it."  The sleeve of the shirt reminds her.  "And, oh yeah, you need your shirt back."

He releases her to take his phone back, and the tension doesn't retract because he puts his hand over hers to take it.  "Keep the shirt," he insists when he pulls his hand back.  He hesitates before adding, "It looks better on you, anyway."  The tone to his voice takes her breath away, and she can feel her cheeks heat.  The unexpected compliment allows unbidden thoughts to spring to her head.  She's always thought of him as some sort of mysterious hero.  Male, certainly, but never as a _man_ —especially one who would find her attractive or pay compliments to that effect.  They just stand there a moment in silence, until their associate clears his throat to remind them that they have places to be.  "Goodnight, Felicity," he adds, with a touch to her shoulder.

"'Night," she mutters absently, surprised at how dazed she sounds.  He must notice it, too, because he chuckles.  She flushes again and turns back to her car to leave.

As she does, she hears the Not-Vigilante say to the Arrow, "You tell her you're injured and bleeding behind a building, and she comes running without any hesitation.  I might have underestimated that girl."

She tries to contain the flash of pride as the Arrow replies, "I told you—she's fearless."

 

* * *

 

Felicity more stumbles than walks through the executive floor of Queen Consolidated.  After last night's events, she couldn't exactly sleep, so she did some more digging into the mysterious Tempest, LLC for Walter.  With an extra dose of caffeine, she managed to give him something to go off of.

His executive assistant is already gone for the night, so she charges into Walter's office like she owns it.  Since the Arrow mistakenly called her "fearless" last night, she feels like she needs to earn it.  "Mr. Steele," she says firmly, "when you have a moment, I have something for you."

He looks up immediately, looking up at her from over his reading glasses.  "Have a seat, Miss Smoak," he responds immediately.  "If you'll allow me to clear some of these papers, I'll be with you immediately."  He shuffles some papers and files around before clasping his hands on the desk in front of him.  "Now, what has your investigation returned?"

She makes an unsatisfied sound in her throat.  "Not as much as I'd like," she admits.  "For an LLC, they're pretty a low-key operation.  They have to have someone wiping their trail—someone _good_."  While Walter frowns, she smiles cockily.  "But not someone as good as _me_."  She pulls a document out of her file folder.  "Tempest owns quite a number of other LLCs in and around Starling.  Most of them are shell corporations buried in shell corporations—buried in shell corporations."  She frowns.  "Actually, I probably wouldn't have found their pattern, except I was working on the other end for a friend."

Walter's eyebrows rise in surprise, and Felicity continues, "Anyway, after I worked through a long line of shell corporations, it turns out that Tempest owns a company called Artemis and one called Sagittarius.  They manufacture and distribute the arrows that the Dark Archer uses in his killing spree.  Whoever owns it, he or she is seriously bad news—and incredibly rich—to pull this off."

One of Walter's eyebrows lifts at her declaration.  "The police have contacted your assistance on this case?" he asks casually, and she knows he's testing her.

At first, Felicity isn't sure what to say; she hasn't told anyone about her work with the Arrow—not even Barry, whom she tells everything.  But, with Walter treading into similar circles with his research, she thinks he's earned the right to know some of the details.  "Not exactly," she admits, biting her lip.  "Let's just say I've been doing some IT work for another party interested in the Dark Archer's movements."  She hesitates before adding, "One who isn't exactly tied to the police."

She can tell the exact moment that Walter understands; though he's incredibly stoic, he looks at her with raised eyebrows and accidentally drops the pen in his hand.  There's a long moment of silence before he finally breaks it.  "That's a very brave thing to admit," he says finally, appraising her with new knowledge in his eyes.

She shrugs it off casually.  "It might be something you need to know," she replies, "if you continue tracking this corporation."  Another thought flickers, and she pulls out the last paper from her file folder and hands it to him.  "I did manage to find this image buried deep in their trail."  It's some sort of abstract star design; lines intersect at all angles to form an eight-pointed star of some sort, with darker lines running through behind the image.  "I wondered if you might recognize it?"

Walter blinks before opening his desk drawer, pulling out a small, brown journal with no markings on it whatsoever.  He opens the inside cover to show the same watermark on the flyleaf.  "Where did you find this?" is her question this time.

She knows she's not going to like the answer by the way he hesitates.  "I accidentally knocked over a photograph of Moira's," he responds, surprising her.  "It was an old portrait of her, Thea, Robert, and Oliver.  The frame broke, and the book simply fell out.  I meant to return it to my wife, but perhaps you could examine it for me?"  He flips through a few pages, showing her they all look blank.  "The book appears to be empty, but I doubt anyone would go to so much trouble to hide an empty book."  He holds it out to her.  "Perhaps you could see what you discover, Miss Smoak?  If, of course, you wouldn't mind."  He hesitates before adding, "I know this could complicate your friendship with Oliver."

She takes it from his hand without any hesitation.  "I don't like mysteries, remember?  They're meant to be solved," she says flatly.  "I plan to see this through, Mr. Steele—no matter what."

He clasps his hands.  "Well, then, thank you, Miss Smoak, and good luck—I believe you're going to need it."


	14. Video Interface Setup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity enjoys a night in with Oliver in which both of them do nothing plot-related. It was a slow week for the muse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if I like this chapter or not. Clearly it didn't like me; it took me _forever_ to write it. I'm honestly sick of looking at it, so *throws chapter in your face* here! :P Reviews are much appreciated, but if not, well, thanks for reading! :)

Felicity sighs as she examines the book she received from Walter once again, frowning.  She's performed every analysis she can think of, all to no avail. Whatever the book's secrets, it's clear that they're going to remain secret for the time being.  She doesn't like to feel like she's been bested by a _book_ , but the inanimate object seems to be winning the fight.  Frustrated, she flips through her instant streaming catalog for a movie that will make her feel better.  Her cursor lands on _The Princess Bride_ , and she figures it's fate.  A few clicks later, it's loading, and she returns the book to its hidey-hole (that loose floor panel under her bed is finally good for something).  Now the challenge is to find something to eat, and a raid of her fridge shows few viable options.

Her doorbell chooses that moment to ring, and she frowns.  Felicity pushes the sleeves up on her shirt (well, not hers—it's the ridiculously warm one the Arrow told her to keep) and grabs the remote, pausing the now-loaded movie before it can play too long.  Then, she starts toward her door, stopping halfway as she realizes she's going to look utterly ridiculous in her oversized shirt and colorful pajama pants.  But then she continues on, deciding, well, screw it; _they're_ the one who chose to interrupt _her_ at home on a Saturday night.  And if it's her downstairs neighbor—the suspicious one that sometimes peeks into her bedroom from the fire escape—she's going to tell him about this thing called the Internet to help with his voyeuristic fantasies.  And if she finally ends up losing her cool, well, she doubts even _Detective Lance_ would arrest her for _that_ one.

A look through the peephole causes her eyes to widen, and she unlocks three deadbolts before opening the door.  "Oliver!" she says in surprise, her voice a little higher than she'd like.  "Thank God you're okay!"  Without thinking, she hugs him, and then she freezes as her actions catch up to her brain.  To her surprise, he doesn't tense up, but instead places a hand between her shoulder blades in some semblance of an awkward hug.

Trying to recover from her awkwardness, she asks, "What are you doing here?"  She realizes the way she sounds, and recovers by adding, "I mean, I'm glad to see you and all, but I thought you were supposed to be in the hospital.  Thea told me that motorcycle accident was pretty horrible."  She opens the door wide.  "Sorry I'm such a spaz—come in.  Please."

The call from Thea had come on the Twenty-Seventh—apparently she'd had trouble getting Oliver's cell phone away from him to get Felicity's phone number.  He had been in the hospital since early Christmas morning, and Felicity couldn't help but feel sorry for him.  She had asked Thea if she should visit him in the hospital, and her answer had been an adamant, " _No!_  He'd be pissed if he knew I even _called_ you—he didn't want you to worry."

Oliver's eyes narrow in anger—thankfully at Thea and not Felicity—as he walks into the room.  "I told her not to call you," he says, affirming what Thea had said.   "It wasn't a big deal, and I knew you'd be concerned."  He hesitates.  "I didn't want to drop by unannounced, but my well-meaning family has been smothering since the accident.  I was hoping you'd let me hide out here."  He holds up a bag from Big Belly Burger.  "Can I bribe you with food?"

She wonders for a moment if he's just blessed with good timing.  "The food fairies work in mysterious ways," she replies with a sagely nod.  At Oliver's puzzled—but amused—expression, she explains, "I was just trying to find something to eat in my fridge that didn't have fuzzy green stuff growing on it.  I wasn't succeeding."  He chuckles, and she motions toward the couch.  "Have a seat.  I can't promise you an exciting evening, but you're welcome to stay."

"Thank you," he replies earnestly.  "It's nice to escape from reality for a while."  At the sound of his voice, Saphira charges into the room, but seems torn between greeting Oliver and trying to devour the fast food.  When Felicity swats her away and carries the food into the kitchen, Saphira jumps onto Oliver's lap.  "Hey, girl," he greets her in a soft tone, probably hoping Felicity won't notice the interaction between the two.

She pretends not to see, turning toward the kitchen and getting what she and Barry refer to as the "fine china"—paper plates and red plastic cups.  "What do you want to drink?" she calls to her guest, and she can't help but think about the casual domesticity of the evening.  "I have water, soda,"—she starts rummaging through her refrigerator—"orange juice, and"—she checks the date on the last option, but curls her nose—"curdled milk."  She concludes in a less-than-cheerful tone, frowning at the offending bottle of milk.

It earns her a chuckle for her efforts.  "While the last one sounds tempting," he replies in a tone that almost sounds like he's _teasing_ her, "I think I'll go with water."

She does what little preparation is necessary before taking their food and drinks to the coffee table.  Oliver seems to take in her appearance for the first time as she walks back toward the couch, something making him smile.  Then Felicity looks down, realizing what she's wearing.  Her pajama pants are the powder blue ones, covered with cartoon-style sapphire police boxes.  Two figures peek out from either side of each TARDIS, one with black hair, a black coat, and a navy scarf; the other with light hair and a plaid shirt.  Underneath every graphic, the words, "The sociopaths have the phone box," are written.

Of course, it could be her shirt, too—it drapes down almost to her knees, and the sleeves are far too long.  She's also hidden the holes where the arrow pierced with other fabrics.  The patch on the back has red, firebreathing dragons on it, and the one on the front has a silhouette of a girl stepping out of a TARDIS box, golden light pouring from it.  The words, "I create myself," are written in a sci-fi-esque font underneath.

As soon as Felicity places the food on the coffee table, Saphira tries to steal a bite.  Felicity stops her by snapping, "Hey!"  Saphira's tail tucks between her legs as she looks at her owner.  Felicity points to the bed in one corner of the room.  "Saphira, go lay down.  _Now_."

Oliver seems impressed as Saphira follows the instruction to the letter.  "Interesting name," he comments after a long moment.  "It sounds fierce—like her."

Felicity colors a little as she prepares to tell the story.  "When I was little," she starts slowly, "I wanted a pet dragon."  He chuckles as she continues, "It broke my heart when I found out they weren't real.  But when I got my first dog"—she motions over her shoulder to Saphira—"I decided I would name her after a dragon.  There was a book series about dragon riders, and Eragon's dragon was named Saphira.  I liked it, and it definitely fits—she's smart, stubborn, and pretty tough when she wants to be."  Wanting to stop his piercing gaze for a moment, she glances at the television.  "I was about to start _The Princess Bride_ , but you could probably talk me out of it."

She's surprised by how puzzled he looks when she mentions the title.  "It's fine with me," he replies easily.  "I've never seen it before."

She clicks the button.  "Then you _cannot_ talk me out of it," she changes her mind.  " _Everyone_ should watch this movie at least once.  It's a classic—well, it's from 1987, but still a classic."

He seems to think about that.  "What is about?" he asks finally, seeming a little hesitant.  She doesn't blame him; the title is a bit misleading, in her opinion.

With a smile, though, she replies, "It's about a lot of things—fencing, fighting.  Torture, revenge.  Giants, monsters.  Chases, escapes.  True love, miracles.  Hopefully it doesn't sound too boring—try to stay awake."

It's the last thing said before the movie really begins, and she stays quiet, allowing him to really appreciate it. After the food is finished, Felicity allows Saphira back to the main area, and she drapes across the cushion between Oliver and Felicity.  At one point, suddenly exhausted from all of the work on the book, Felicity re-situates Saphira and drapes her legs across the second cushion.  The rest of the movie-viewing experience continues well, with her laughing and Oliver chuckling from time to time.  But, finally, it ends.

Felicity clicks off the credits with her streaming remote, and Oliver brushes off his jeans and rises.  "I think I've bothered you long enough," he says with a partial smile, "and I wouldn't want to outstay my welcome."

Felicity waves a hand.  "You didn't bother me," she assures him.  "I would have done the same thing either way.  Well, the same thing, minus food."  She tilts her head to the side.  "So, really, you did _me_ a favor."  With a smile, she adds, "I'm not sorry I made you endure the cinematic genius of William Goldman."

"Neither am I," he replies, surprising her.  "It was nice—we don't have that many movie nights at my house."  He offers a rare smile.  "Parties, yes, but not movies."

She follows him to her door as she continues the conversation.  "Well, that's a shame—you can't host a Queen Gala in your pajamas."  She motions to her own attire.  "And obviously movie night does not have those restrictions."

He chuckles before placing his hand at her elbow.  The touch is weighted as though it means something more than just a touch, but she isn't able to understand the intensity in Oliver's eyes.  "Thank you, Felicity," he says quietly, though he might as well have yelled it for all the meaning there.

She shrugs it off, biting her lip as she looks away—because, for the sake of her sanity, she _has_ to look away.  "Anytime," she replies, surprising herself when she means it.  "If ever you need a place to hide out again, this is it."

"I may take you up on that," he replies finally, with that almost-smile on his features.  "Goodnight."

She unlocks the deadbolts a little slowly, almost sad to see him leave.  As, apparently is Saphira; during the conversation, she has moved into the short hallway there, wagging her tail while sitting at Oliver's feet.  She lets loose a small whine when the last deadbolt clicks open, and Felicity can't help but agree with her.  She doesn't really have that much company in her little apartment, but when people leave, it always has a tendency to feel a little empty for a while.

She's surprised, though, when she opens her door to find Detective Lance standing there, arm raised as if to knock.  And then she can't help the way her mouth falls when she sees it's him.  Then she reminds herself she _wanted_ company.

That old saying comes back to her, and she realizes that she really _should_ be careful what she wishes for.

 

* * *

 

Detective Quentin Lance looks between the two in the doorway, a little surprised.  Of course he had expected the Smoak girl—she's the one he came to see, after all—but the Queen kid is an unexpected surprise.  The same way walking out to your car to find it totaled is an unexpected surprise.

They make for an odd pair standing in her doorway; he's clearly leaving, but why he was there in the first place, Lance doesn't _want_ to know.  Still, he thinks it's odd to see a grown woman in an oversized shirt—he'd say it belonged to a man, except it's decorated with brightly-colored patches—and colorful pajama pants that he'd expect to be in a second-grader's closet, not hers.

He tries to keep casual, despite his feelings.  According to his superiors, after that last fiasco, the Queen kid is currently untouchable.  His boss says it's a miracle the Queens didn't sue and take the department for every dime, but Lance kind of saw that coming—after all, when a guilty man walks away from a murder charge, he doesn't complain about the time lost in jail.

And Queen _is_ guilty—of that much, Lance is certain.  He may not run around at night in a green hood, but that doesn't mean he isn't everything Lance said he was.

"Evening, Miss Smoak," he says cordially before adding a growling, "Queen."  Turning his attention back to the girl, he continues, "Sorry to bother you, but we're re-interviewing witnesses from the Vigilante cases."  He shrugs, completely unapologetic—after all, his bosses are starting to cut into his personal time, too.  "Can I ask you a few more questions about that break-in at Queen Consolidated?"

"Sure," she replies easily, just as cooperative as Lance thought she'd be.  She waves a hand, but she isn't smiling like she was a moment ago, indicating that she's probably less than pleased with his sudden appearance.  But, hey, it isn't like he wants to be here, either—if he had it his way, all crime would happen between the hours of nine and five and be solved in ten minutes.  But that's just not the way it works, which means it's in his job description to annoy little blonde girls younger than his daughter.  "Come on in, Detective."

He steps into the apartment, watching the two with renewed interest.  Queen clearly isn't thrilled by the detective's presence; he can hear the younger man whisper to the Smoak girl, "Do you want me to stay?"  But Lance isn't exactly sure if the question has anything to do with his presence or not.

Surprisingly, the Smoak girl rolls her eyes, smiling as if he's being ridiculous.  "Go home to your family," she responds with a shooing gesture.  "It's been a good... oh,"—she glances around, her eyes landing on a nearby clock—"two hours since they've tried smothering you with attention.  Thea's probably lost without a brother to harass.  I'm glad to see you're okay."

"Thanks," he replies, before eyeing Lance, his eyes just a flicker of movement before refocusing on the girl.  "Goodnight," he says finally, and then the blonde is locking the three deadbolts on the door behind him.  While she does so, Lance takes a moment to admire her dog.  He doesn't pet it, however, because the mutt decides to start growling at him.  If they wanted him to feel utterly unwelcome, well, mission accomplished.

Felicity walks into the main area and practically collapses onto her sofa, waving for the detective to do the same.  The moment he sits down, the mutt sits between them and starts growling.  Ignoring her demon dog, the girl asks tiredly, "So what is this about, Detective?"

He waves a hand dismissively.  "Just a few routine questions."  He hesitates, thinking about all the things he's learned about Felicity Meghan Smoak.  "But, before I begin, well, I've actually done my homework this time."  At the tilt of her head, he explains, "I see a lot of kids who grow up in situations like yours in my line of work, but not many who end up with a Master's in Computer Engineering.  Or who turn down offers from _Microsoft_ so they can work at Queen Consolidated."

"Starling City is home," she replies flatly, with a small smile on her face.  Lance knows from his research that it's not where her life started out, but apparently it's the place she's come to call home.  And he understands—he doesn't think that he could leave Starling if he wanted to.

Clearing his throat, he says, "I wanted to ask you some questions about some of the other cases involving the Hood."  She perks up at this, head tilting to the side and eyes narrowing in either confusion or suspicion.  "It seems our Vigilante is pretty high-tech, and, well, our guys are a little baffled."  He sighs, mostly for effect.  "The Hood sent me a phone just before Christmas so he could talk."  Her head lifts up in surprise, and Lance realizes she's not as informed as he thought.  "Our tech guys are baffled—they say the tech inside is military-grade, and they can't trace it."  He motions to the girl sitting across from him.  "But I thought that maybe a tech genius like you could give it a try sometime."  He waves his hand casually.  "But that can be on your schedule—stop by the precinct, and we'll talk."  He frowns.  "But the point is, I don't think the Hood is working alone."

She has a better poker face than he expects; she doesn't even flinch at the hidden accusation.  She's either been expecting his Columbo-esque interrogation technique, or she really _is_ innocent—which he doesn't exactly believe.  It's funny to him that the Hood suddenly knows how to baffle the precinct's best computer guys, especially when he wasn't using much more than trick arrows before.  Yes, he thinks that the Hood has help, and, well, Lance doesn't believe it's coincidence that his tech savvy started _after_ Felicity Smoak found a shot-up laptop lying on her desk.

"That's an interesting idea," she remarks thoughtfully.  "I don't think anyone's ever thought of that."  She ponders it a moment further, and Lance can practically see the wheels in her head turning.  But she surprises him when she says, "That could explain any discrepancies in different statements and facts.  But it would also complicate your investigation—it opens up an entirely new line of suspects.  And this one would be harder to think about—you're basing your suspicion on a training and skill, not a physical description.  At least you _know_ the Vigilante is male, is a certain height, has a certain skill.  But not your accomplice."

Her ability to explore all sides of the issue makes things more complicated for Lance; he thought that, if she was helping the Vigilante, she'd try to convince him that he worked alone.  Maybe she's not as guilty as he suspected; that would make two so far—her _and_ Queen—he's been wrong about on this Vigilante thing.  With a resigned sigh, he rises from the sofa.  "Thank you for your assistance, Miss Smoak.  I'm sorry to bother you this late."

He turns to leave, but thinks better of it.  "You mind if I ask you something?"  When she waves a hand in a by-all-means gesture, he continues, "What _is_ it that you women see in that Queen kid?  I've watched my daughters pine over him for years, and he killed one and damn near killed the other when he broke her heart."  He crosses his arms, starting to get irritated, even though he told himself he wouldn't.  "And now I see my daughter upset because he hasn't talked to her in two months."  Felicity's eyes go wide in surprise, and then a flicker of recognition shoots through her expression.  She knows something about that, and, honestly, Lance just isn't surprised anymore.  "You're a smart girl, Miss Smoak.  You know _exactly_ what Oliver Queen has done in the past, but yet I see you falling into the same trap my daughters did."

She hesitates for a moment, really thinking on his question—and he appreciates that.  She doesn't blow him off as an old man with a grudge against the boy who pitted his daughters against one another, but _really_ seems to be thinking of how to answer him.  "I can't speak for your daughters," Felicity says slowly, gaining momentum as she goes, "because I didn't know Oliver then.  I've only known the man he's been since his return, and he just seems to me like he's seeing the world with new eyes."  She hesitates for a moment.  "I don't think the Oliver you remember is the one that returned from that island.

"And, for the record, we're friends."  She waves her hands awkwardly.  "Oliver and I, I mean.  We're just friends—nothing else.  So I don't know what Laurel saw in the old Oliver."  She hesitates, biting her lip.  "And, maybe, Laurel should realize she has Tommy Merlyn wrapped around her finger.  He's a good guy, once you get past the playboy persona.  If I'm being honest, he's probably a better choice than Oliver.  Oliver has baggage—Tommy Merlyn does _not_."

Lance responds with a non-committal grunt, not liking the way his question was turned on him.  He doesn't like the Merlyn kid any more than the Queen kid, and he'd rather see his daughter settle down with a safer bet.  Still, it makes Lance feel a _little_ better knowing that she's not just another girl making the same mistakes that Laurel and Sara have.

He decides to take his leave then, thinking about Felicity's answer to his other question.  That response didn't go as expected either, but it does nothing to ease his conscience.  He _knows_ that security footage isn't quite right—the techs have told him that on multiple occasions.  Not only would it take a very fine technical mind to do that, it doesn't even begin to answer _why_ those tapes were cloned.  He'd bet it had something to do with one Felicity Smoak, but, of course, gut feeling isn't evidence.  But he has to give her credit—if she's a liar, she's pretty convincing.  He's still not sure if she's covering for the Hood or not.  And, if it _is_ her helping the Hood, that presents the problem of how to stop her.  He's certain that there will be no way for him to outmaneuver her.

Sure, he's no slouch, but he knows that Felicity Smoak is a whole hell of a lot smarter than him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Also, before next Thursday, look for a new side story as reward for your amazing reviews and hits.** I always forget to tell you guys about them, but I'm warning you now. It will be called "Peer-to-Peer Networking," and will probably be up Tuesday at the latest. :) Be on the lookout!
> 
>  **Another housekeeping note:** For you writers out there, I'm going to be opening collections for Arrow AU fic soon. I've never opened a collection before, but we'll see how that goes. It should be up soon after this chapter goes up, so if you'd like to add fic, feel free! :)


	15. Firewall Removal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things between Felicity and the Arrow start to heat up. And not in the fun way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/0bnPm2t1CX4S4JwRM9YIlw). ("Helpless" is missing because it isn't available on Spotify.)
> 
> Gah, I love this chapter! Sorry if that sounds conceited, but I think it's one of my favorites so far. :) We're now officially out of 1.09 Year's End and into 1.10 Burned. Which is typically thought of as a Laurel episode. Hopefully I can trick you out of thinking that. :P Reviews/comments are much appreciated, but thanks, anyway, for reading! :)
> 
> **Also, I have a short playlist at the bottom for this chapter.** Just a few songs that inspired this. :)

Felicity decides, for not the first time, that she's an idiot.  She should not be here—she doesn't fit in, she doesn't want to be here, and she's about a million dollars short of being able to hang with _this_ crowd.  Seriously, if she sees one more vintage Chanel in the room, she's going to scream.  But then she reminds herself that Oliver specifically _asked_ her to be here, and she thinks it's more because he wants to show her that he's finally realizing his goals and following her advice.  It's a nice gesture, but that still doesn't mean that it's her scene.

Don't get her wrong, Verdant is pretty spectacular—not that she expected anything else.  She doesn't know a lot about what's considered cool in the club scene, but Oliver's opted for an industrial theme, with steel support beams and columns.  It's low-lit interior mostly relies on the moon for what little light is available; a few metalwork designs are suspended from the ceiling, wired with lightbulbs, but there aren't enough to _really_ light the place up.  It's truly a nice place, and she reminds herself to congratulate him when she sees him.

But the fundraiser for the Starling City Fire Department has brought in a crowd of the rich and fabulous—mainly because it's Oliver and Tommy hosting, and everyone wants a look at Verdant—and Felicity has already made her two-hundred-dollar deposit.  The guy taking checks looked a little unimpressed by the amount, probably because it was the smallest he'd seen all night.  In response, Felicity had said, "Hey, I'm a working stiff with a Masters degree to pay for.  I have to eat at some point this week."  The guy had seemed a little awkward after that, and Felicity didn't feel sorry for him.  That's what happens when you make assumptions.

She honestly couldn't spare so much, but it's for a pretty good cause.  She's developed the habit of watching the news to keep up with the Arrow's whereabouts, so she's heard about the two firemen's deaths in the past week.  Because she's curious and good at getting herself into trouble, she digs into the SCPD server and finds the coroner's report for one Danny de la Vega.  After some further investigation into the arson report, lo and behold, he apparently was burned at a hotter temperature than the fire actually reached.  Coincidence, she thinks _not_.

Through a break in the crowd, she's actually able to see Oliver talking to another guest.  She doesn't exactly want to charge across the room to say hello—and risk being drawn into conversation with some random rich billionaire with a god complex—so she instead stands by the refreshment table and enjoys the nice red sitting there.  She watches him for a while, and is surprised to find his eyes finally land on her.  She offers a little wave, which he returns.  She's so lost in her people (well, _Oliver_ ) watching that she nearly jumps out of her skin when a very familiar voice says, "I told Tommy you wouldn't bail out on Ollie.  Remind me to rub it in his face later."

Felicity turns to find herself tackled, or possibly hugged, by Thea Queen.  "Good to see you, too, Thea," she replies, chuckling.  Then she remembers the last time they talked.  "How mad was Oliver when he realized you told me about the accident?" Felicity asks as Thea releases her.

Thea waves a hand easily, still smiling, indicating it can't be _that_ bad.  "He attempted to grumble something at me," she replies easily, "but it was really half-hearted."  She winks.  "I think it was more for the sake of saying he _did_ yell at me than actually doing it."  Leaning in, she adds, "That's the best mood he's been in since he came home."  Her voice turns suggestive as she continues, "And I know he spent the night at your place."

Felicity turns crimson at the accusation, and she waves her hands violently.  "What? _No!_ " she replies quickly.  "He didn't spend the night.  He brought me food and stayed long enough to tolerate me watching _The Princess Bride_.  And then he left.  I haven't seen or talked to him since."  Somehow her voice turns almost disappointed at the end, and she wonders when it decided to do that on its own.

Felicity isn't the only one who sounds disappointed.  "Oh," is Thea's eloquent response, a frown forming over her features.  "He's been really busy with the club," she offers kindly.  It's sweet but unnecessary; Felicity knows that Oliver has other things in his life beside her, and she respects that.

Before the conversation can continue, a voice from behind Felicity says, "Hey, Smoaky, we went on a couple of dates—you could at least say hello."

Turning around with a wry smile on her face, she replies, " _One_ date, Merlyn—I don't make the same mistake twice."  She finds herself actually grateful for Tommy Merlyn's warm presence, already starting to smile as he laughs at her response.  "This place looks amazing, by the way," she continues.  "You two did an amazing job with it."

Tommy shrugs off the praise easily.  "Well, it was mostly Ollie," he allows, "but I did some yelling to get contractors to work from time to time."  Frowning, he adds, "Laurel's friend Johanna buried her brother this week, and I thought a fundraiser would help them out.  Her parents are retired now, and she's not exactly pulling down six figures with a job at the CNRI.  I'm not sure if Danny had anything saved."

"Well, I did contribute," Felicity says, "but it wasn't as much as I'd like."  She hesitates before adding, "Barry isn't my brother by blood, but he's the closest thing to family I have.  I'd be devastated if anything happened to him.  Johanna has my sympathy."

Before the conversation can progress further, the drop of a glass and an audible gasp from one of the women in the crowd.  Felicity understands instantly what has caused it—a man in a firefighter's uniform with a lighter.  Before Felicity can react, the entire club bursts in to flame, and the wet spots along the wall tell her he's somehow doused the place with gasoline or some such.

Everything happens at once.  People scream, yell, run, and head for the exits.  It's complete and total chaos, and Felicity knows that it's only going to get worse.  Tommy and Thea are pretty much frozen in place, so Felicity gives them both a push toward the red "EXIT" lamp over the nearest door.  "Come on, we have to go!" she yells over the clamor.

Tommy doesn't budge.  "Laurel," he says simply.  "She and Oliver were talking to the fire chief.  I won't leave without her."  It's clear that he means it, and Felicity isn't exactly in the mood for heroics.

"Look, Merlyn," she says flatly, "I'm glad that you love her and all, but now isn't the time to start playing superhero."  She catches sight of something moving around in the corner of her eye, and she points to it, already knowing that green hood anywhere.  "Leave that to him—he's a professional."  When it's clear Tommy doesn't care _who_ is running around saving lives, she huffs, leaning closer as she starts to play dirty.  "Look, if you want to risk your life, that's your business—I'll go with you.  But do you want something to happen to Thea?"  Tommy's expression changes as he looks back at the girl.  "Let _me_ go after Laurel—you watch out for Thea."

Reluctantly, he does as she suggests, turning toward the nearest exit, and she turns the other way, thankful she wore her panda flats for this instead of heels.  She rushes toward the center of the building, careful to avoid the flames.  Ahead of her, she sees the Arrow pushing people toward the exits and ushering them out.  One of them, she can tell, is Laurel, so she figures that Oliver is ahead of her.  Felicity breathes a deep sigh of relief before heading for the exit herself.

Before she can take two, steps, though, one of those pretty light fixtures drops down beside her, one of the extensions without a lightbulb scraping down her bare arm.  It hurts, and the gash covers her arm vertically from shoulder to elbow.  She frowns when she sees it's already oozing blood.  Remembering that she needs to leave—preferably _now_ —she heads again toward the exit.

One of those steel beams she thought added character drops down in front of her, catching on fire almost immediately.  Frowning, she turns to go the other way—back toward Tommy and Thea's exit—but the fire has already spread through her last pathway.  She manages to make her way over to one of the walls, but she doesn't know how safe that is because it's made of glass.  Soon, the fire spreads, and she realizes her only way out is through the glass paneling behind her.  And, as her rotten luck would have it, it's apparently plexiglas.

She's not stupid and she knows exactly what will happen next.  She frowns, wishing her death would have been a little less tragic-damsel-in-an-action-movie and more, well, _not_ painful.  She doesn't dare turn to see the flames approaching, only staring off into the background of Starling City.  She closes her eyes for a long moment, still not wanting to give up hope in the middle of what she knows is perfect this-will-not-end-well material.

A tap on the glass causes her to muffle a scream, and she breathes a sigh of relief as she sees the Arrow on the other side.  She sees his mouth move more than she hears him, but she can tell he's saying, "Get away from the window and duck."

She backs as far away as she can without becoming barbeque, squatting on the floor and covering her head.  Something explodes glass all over the place, and then she sees the remnants of the wall and the nice-sized hole now serving as her escape.  Her ears start to ring a little from the close proximity to the device.  Without waiting for her to move, the Arrow lifts her to her feet by the elbow that's _not_ bleeding all over the place, then grabs her about the waist—firmly but not painfully—and half-drags her out until the shock kicks out, when she keeps stride with him.  They pass a lick of flame at just the right angle, and it lights up their immediate surroundings, and she can see the exact color of the Arrow's eyes for the first time.

Blue.  They're as blue as the sky on a sunny, cloudless day, and she thinks for a moment she's seen him before—but _without_ the mask.

Blaming her delusions on the near-death experience and the explosions that saved her life, she shakes her head, but finds that's not a good idea—the motion makes her vision swim, and suddenly that wine she drank doesn't sit as well.  She groans at the sensation, and the Arrow, against Felicity's protests, picks her up and carries her through the opening caused by the explosion.

He carries her as if she weighs little more than a rag doll, setting her down as soon as they're clear of the building, with eyes hidden by the dark and a worried frown, he asks her, "Are you all right?"  Before she can answer, he touches her arm where it's bleeding.  He studies it, gentler than she'd ever expect, and frowns.

Belatedly, she answers, "I'm fine, I think.  Just a scratch.  And my ears are ringing a little.  How did you do that—"  She breaks off into explosion sound effects.

He chuckles as he pulls out that butterfly knife without a word, unzipping his jacket and cutting a strip of cloth away from the shirt underneath.  Doing so exposes a couple of nasty scars and part of a tattoo in Chinese that she knows better than to ask about.  As he zips his jacket back up, he replies tersely, "Explosive arrow."  He takes her arm again, wrapping the cloth around it tightly in a makeshift bandage.  "That should help the bleeding," he comments.

"Thank you," she says, a little breathlessly.  As she speaks, he reaches out a tentative hand, brushing some of the loose strands from her ponytail from her face.  A few glass shards fall away, and she realizes he's trying to clear the glass and debris from her hair.  It reminds her of the way Oliver wiped the blood from her face after that incident at the Queen mansion, and she thinks both he and the Arrow are more gentle than anyone suspects.  Trying to seem calmer than she is, she adds, "I mean, not just for tearing your shirt to make a bandage.  I mean, I'm sorry you had to ruin your shirt, and I'm grateful but—"

"Felicity," he says gently, pulling her out of the babble.  Somewhere behind them, sirens sound, but the Arrow doesn't seem unduly concerned by it.

She shakes her head, and it still doesn't agree with her.  She wobbles in place, and the Arrow steadies her by her elbow.  "Anyway," she says, fighting the wave of nausea that follows, "thank you for the rescue."

His expression changes as he tilts her chin up, studying her expression.  "What were you still doing in there?" he asks, an edge to his voice.  Instead of responding, she means to turn her head away, but the gentle touch on her chin tightens, refusing to let her escape.  When she doesn't answer quick enough, he almost growls, " _Felicity_."

She bites her lip before finally saying, "I needed to make sure that Oliver and Laurel were safe."  A confused frown covers his expression, and she explains, "Merlyn said they were together, and I wasn't going to leave them in there while the place burned."  She knows better than to mention it was to appease Tommy and to get him out of there safely because she knows how that will end.  After all, she doesn't want to be the reason why the Merlyns get a visit from the Arrow.

There's a long pause as he studies her before he releases her and finally says, slowly as if weighing his words, "Better them than you."  After another intense moment where something other than words is exchanged, he chuckles, the sound ominous in the synthesizer.  "I can't decide if you're reckless or fearless."

She laughs, feeling giddy all of the sudden.  Then the realization catches up to her.  "I just ran into a burning building after my friends.  Dear God, what was I _thinking?_ "  She shakes her head.  "If it's a question of brave or foolish, I'd go with foolish."

"I think brave," he corrects softly, and it's so sincere that Felicity has a hard time believing he's humoring her.  With more weight, he says louder, "I _always_ think brave."

"Funny," is her reply, her expression pointed, "me, too."  It's her turn to hesitate before finally saying, "Actually, _I_ always think _hero_."

They fall into a moment of loaded looks and quiet understanding of one another.  Neither one of them can really agree with the other—Felicity is _not_ brave, and she knows the Arrow doesn't see himself as heroic—but it gives them both something to achieve.  It would be nice, Felicity thinks, to be the person he sees her as.  All the while, she knows similar thoughts are running through his mind, too.

The sirens are closer now, but that doesn't seem to bother him, as it's deafening but he still pays no mind to the police presence.  Finally, he says what's on his mind:  "You should be more careful."  He has to yell over the sirens, but that doesn't stop him from standing there.  The moment is a little weighted by the things they're not brave enough to put into words, but he lightens it with a partial smile and, "Good IT help is hard to find."

Before she can respond, the Arrow looks to the alleyway around them, and Felicity follows his gaze to the figure of their favorite cop.  "Give Detective Lance my regards," he says to her softly.

She snorts.  "Is that a nice way of instructing me to give the one-finger salute for you, or do you actually mean 'regards'?" she asks with a wry smile.

She earns a chuckle for her trouble.  "Either would be appropriate," he says with an almost smile.  He places a hand on her shoulder, watching Lance closely now, and Felicity is starting to get nervous; she's able to make out the barrel of a drawn gun.  "I'll check on you tonight," he adds quickly, causing her attention to snap back to him.

Before she can protest, Lance is identifying his status as a cop, and, with what she thinks is a _wink_ , he draws his bow and fires an arrow in seconds flat.  She crouches down immediately, the action partly reactionary and partly dramatic for Lance.  It must have some sort of rappelling action, because it pulls him up on top of the building next door, and the Arrow disappears into the night.

Felicity tries to look like she's in shock for Detective Lance's benefit, but she thinks that buzz of adrenalin in her veins and the flush of color to her skin have _nothing_ to do with fear.

 

* * *

 

Detective Lance arrives to the scene more quickly than some of the other officers, due to other circumstances.  He doesn't expect to find the Queen kid's club torched, the flames already sky-high.  It gives him a little glee to think that Queen will be upset about the building's turnout, but he soon finds he has bigger problems.

An eyewitness tells him the Hood is running around, and, well, Lance can't exactly pass up an opportunity like that.  He knows about the back alley behind the former factory-slash-almost club, and he thinks it would be the best escape route.  So, naturally, he isn't surprised to see the terror of Starling City standing there.

He _is_ surprised to find him standing next to Felicity Smoak.

Sure, he isn't surprised to confirm they're working together, but he always thought it would be carried out in secret—with emails, burner phones, and no direct contact.  But, judging by how close the two of them are standing, this isn't their first face-to-face meeting.  In fact, if it had been any other two people in the world, he'd say they looked moony-eyed over one another.  Kind of like that look Laurel gets over that Merlyn kid every now and again, much to Lance's chagrin.

Unexpectedly, the Arrow's head swivels in Lance's direction, which leads to a general identification and some gun swinging.  Seconds later, the Hood puts a hand on Felicity's shoulder, says something, and then swings off into the night, like some freaky mix between Tarzan and Robin Hood.  Generally he'd be more upset about losing the Hood, but Felicity isn't exactly going anywhere.

He's not surprised that she doesn't try to run, just simply walks up to Lance.  As she does so, he notices a black strip of cloth—with a wet spot—covering her upper right arm, and he kicks immediately out of interrogation mode and into protect-and-serve mode.  "You hurt, kid?" he asks her.

She shakes her head, looking more than a little frazzled, and Lance thinks he might have read that situation wrong.  With a motion to her arm, she says, "One of those spiky light fixtures caught on my arm.  I fought bravely, but, sadly, I'm no match for gravity."  Her voice almost sounds normal, but she seems a little... _off_ somehow.

He puts his hand between her shoulder blades, leading her out of the alleyway.  "I have some questions," he says, "but we can get you all fixed up first."

The walk is short, and, while the EMTs are examining her, he pulls a random one aside and says, "Hey, I want that strip of cloth for evidence."  He doesn't explain to the tech why, and he doesn't seem to care, but Lance has a few ideas.  After all, it didn't come from her outfit, and it was at the wrong angle for her to have tied it.  If he had to guess, he'd say it was the Hood's, and, well, everything he gathers earns Lance one step toward Starling City's "savior."

When they're done sewing up the eight-inch-long gash in her arm and she's gathered safely under a shock blanket with a bottle of water, Lance says to her, "I have a few questions for you."

She puts a hand to her forehead, looking a little weary.  "I figured you would," she says, sounding very much like the adrenalin buzz has worn off.  She looks at him then.  "What would you like to know about first, the fire or the Vigilante?  Because I don't know what happened with the fire.  Everything was calm, and then _whoosh_.  Flame."

Her all-business tone causes his eyebrows to rise, but he asks anyway.  "Actually, I'd like to know about Walter Steele first."

It's a curveball, and it actually gets a rise out of her for a change.  It's only then that Lance realizes she's been playing him like a violin during their previous interactions; he's always figured that she's in check of her emotions, but it seems that the opposite is true.  "Mr. Steele?" she asks slowly, her eyebrows knitting together.  "What happened to him?"  The cold dread in her voice and the phrasing of her question lets Lance know immediately that he was right to ask her; she doesn't ask if something happened, but _assumed_ that something horrible occurred.

Lance is starting to realize that anyone who has ever buried a proverbial body in Starling City seems to confide in the blonde, innocent-looking IT girl.

"He's missing," Lance answers her, earning a gasp, "and presumed kidnapped.  We're trying to figure out if he had any enemies."  His eyebrows knit together.  "Was he working on anything that would be related to this?"

Lance only sees the quick flash of hesitation because he's actually looking for it this time.  Finally, she answers quietly, "A few weeks ago, he asked me to do some research for him."  She looks up at him through her eyelashes, biting her lip before continuing, "He was looking into a warehouse in the Glades, but didn't give me any details."  There's a quaver in her voice as she adds, so softly Lance almost doesn't hear her, "He said he thought his head of security was killed because Mr. Steele asked him to investigate."  She takes a few deep breaths before finally saying, "I couldn't find any more about it than he did, so I turned in my results, and he never talked to me about it again."

Lance raises an eyebrow.  "Did he tell you why he was looking into this warehouse?"

Felicity shakes her head, though her eyes tell a different story this time.  "He didn't say a word," she lies pretty convincingly, but it's just not good enough.  He knows she's not going to answer anymore; in his experience, once a suspect starts lying about something, they don't stop.

Accepting his fate, he changes tacks.  "What about the Hood?"

This time, her facial expression changes, and it seems more honest this time.  It's not the best sign in the world, since she lies like a Persian rug in the Queen mansion, but he'll take what he can get.  "I managed to get myself trapped in the building," she says instantly.  "The Vigilante did some sort of exploding arrow trick and blew the glass there.  He saw my injured arm and bandaged it."  She frowns.  "He knew my name—which is weird because I've never met him before."  Lance isn't buying the bullshit she's selling, but he doesn't say anything.  A _blind man_ could have seen those two had history, with one glance into that alley tonight.  "He asked me if I was all right, I told him yes, and then"—she chuckles, setting Lance's nerves on edge—"he said to give you his regards."

"What the hell does that even mean?" flies out of his mouth before he has a moment to think about it.  Normally he would be upset about speaking before thinking, but, well, he's talking to _Felicity Smoak_.  Based on limited experience, he can already tell that, if putting one's foot in their mouth was an Olympic sport, she'd have the gold medal.

She shrugs.  "Don't know," she says finally.  "He said, 'Give Detective Lance my regards.'  No explanation."  She hesitates before adding softly, "Maybe he sees you two as allies in the fight against crime?"

That's enough to stir up all of Lance's pent-up frustration.  Pointing a finger at her, he growls, "Thinking like that is _exactly_ what gets pretty little things like you in trouble."  He runs a hand over his face, thinking about Laurel—about the cell phone she left lying on his desk by accident, the one with the Hood's phone number programmed into it.  He _still_ doesn't know what he's going to do about it.  "Miss Smoak," he continues finally, "that man—whoever the hell he is—has a habit of involving hard-working civilians in his work, and they all pay for it eventually.  My _daughter_ is of the same mind right now because she won't listen to reason, and, God help me, I'm not going to watch anyone else make the same mistakes."

Felicity raises her hands in defeat.  "Whoa," she says, drawing out the word, "that was _not_ what I meant.  I was trying to see things from his perspective—that doesn't mean that I agree with his methods."  It sounds suspiciously like the truth, and so Lance listens to her intently.  "He's committed crime to fight crime.  That's not the way it works in an ideal world."  Lance may not be as smart as her, but even he catches the qualifier at the end.  "The bad guys commit crime, and the police stop them using less severe methods."  She hesitates.  "At the risk of being yelled at again, I understand what he's trying to do—I even respect it on some levels.  But violence will always only beget more violence.  The only way to stop it is to break the cycle, Detective."  She looks at him with a loaded glance that he doesn't try to interpret.  "But, sometimes, when the law can't keep up with the criminals, _someone_ has to step in and make the crime levels more manageable.  And that's what Starling's Vigilante is doing.

"Black and white, Detective," she continues.  "The cops are good, the criminals are bad.  But the Vigilante is in an entirely different place.  He's does illegal things and gets positive results.  Not exactly good, but not all bad, either.  He's the gray line that separates the two of you, and you could use that to your advantage— _if_ you'd let the Vigilante's presence work for you."  Lance honestly doesn't know what to say to that, so instead of answering, he turns on his heel and makes his way back to his squad car.  He tells himself he isn't running away, but he knows better.  Felicity Smoak made perfect sense, loath as he is to admit it.

But what scares the hell out of him is that he's starting to _agree_ with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist for the main storyline:
> 
> "Fire" - Orianthi (I couldn't resist, even though it has nothing to do with this scene)  
> "Save Yourself, I'll Hold Them Back" - My Chemical Romance  
> "And We Run" - Within Temptation feat. Xzibit  
> "Helpless" - Neon Trees  
> "Monsters" - Matchbook Romance  
> "Start a Fire" - Ryan Star (has to do with the scene, but not the way you'd think ;D)


	16. Data Decryption and Analysis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Oliver have a heart-to-heart in the back of an ambulance. Which could also be the start of a paramedic AU, but that's not what this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/2FPEeHGFdLGLQgjs1u7Lq1). (Missing "Golden Slumbers" because it's not on Spotify.)
> 
> I WAS NOT EXPECTING THIS. All subtle Doctor Who references aside, I genuinely didn't expect this to be an enjoyable chapter to write whatsoever. But I was pleasantly surprised; it turned out to be a lot cuter than I imagined. ;) I'm cranking up the heat a little (not a lot; we're still simmering), and there's a lot more drama in this. But I'll let you be the judge. ;) Reviews/comments are love, but so is just simply reading! Thank you! :)
> 
> And, sorry about the response time--I will be finishing up review answers today from the last chapter. Somehow I managed three posts last week, and, well, I haven't been able to be on top of the review stuff. Sorry!
> 
> **Also, look for a side story to appear sometime before next Thursday.** The name of it will be "File Sharing," and it will probably go up by Tuesday at the latest. :) Just wanted to let you know!'
> 
> **Another important note:** I'm going back and editing previously posted chapters. I probably will repost all of them together. I'm up to Chapter 6 right now, and I'll let you know when I get finished posting. ;)

Felicity sighs as she watches Detective Lance walk away angrily, that headache starting to flare up again.  She was stupid to try and convince him about the Arrow's noble intentions, but it's difficult for her to listen to him say horrible things about the _only_ person in the city that seems to be doing any good.  It will only increase Lance's suspicion—and, by association, cause the Arrow more trouble—but there are just some things that are impossible to let go.  For her, that's one of them.

A paramedic says to her, interrupting her thoughts, "It could be likely you have a concussion.  You probably need to be in observation for the next twenty-four hours, just in case."  He eyes her warily.  "Do you have someone to stay with you tonight?"

Felicity waves a hand.  "I can call someone, she says easily, and that seems to satisfy the jerk, who has apparently pegged her in that "forever alone" box that she hates so much.  Seriously, her appearance may scream "nerd," but that doesn't mean they all have to assume that it also means "nerd with no life."  She has friends, thank you.

(Well, three of them, anyway.)

She calls the one she goes to for the hard stuff, seeing as how she owes him a few confessions anyway.  Not surprisingly, he picks up on the first ring, chipper as always.  "Hey, Sherly," Barry says on the other end of the connection.  "How are things?  I haven't heard from you in a couple of days."  There's some sort of background noise—like a subway station—and then it clears.  "Believe it or not, I was actually about to call you—I'm gonna be in Starling for a few days.  Can I crash at your place?"

"Of course," Felicity replies, relieved it's going to go according to plan.  "That's actually why I was calling.  I—um, well, did you hear about that fire in Starling's newest nightclub?"

"Well, _yeah_ ," Barry replies instantly.  "Are you kidding?  It's been on the news since the explosion.  It was at Verdant, that new club opened by—"  He stops, his voice changing abruptly into something much more grave.  "Oh, God, you were there, weren't you?"

Felicity tries to chuckle at the near-death experience, but the tone is off, and she's certain it's obvious that she's faking it.  "Um, yeah," she replies, surprisingly chipper.  Before he can worry, she rushes to add, "I'm fine, though—just a few cuts from broken glass and a gash down my arm from a light fixture.  But the paramedics are concerned about a concussion, and they don't want me to stay home alone."

"I'll come pick you up," he says immediately.  "Try not to get into any trouble while you're waiting."  She means to protest, but the rude jerk hangs up on her before she can.  She swears, sometimes she doesn't know why she loves him.  But then she thinks about the day they met, and she remembers quickly.

But as much as she appreciates Barry, she realizes he's a complication.  The Arrow has already said he's going to visit her, and she thinks that could turn awkward fast.  She's determined to help keep his secret, and Barry is an exposure they both don't want.  And, besides, he's the biggest Arrow fanboy in the known universe—and possibly some unknown ones—so Felicity _might_ be just a little embarrassed by the thought of Barry and the Arrow in the same room.  Barry is a natural fit as a scientist with his natural inquisitiveness and burning curiosity, but, somehow, she thinks the Arrow won't appreciate that quality as much as the scientific community does.

Interrupting her thoughts, a voice breaks through the clamor of the witnesses and EMTs around her.  "Felicity!" he yells, and she knows it's Oliver before she even looks in his direction.  Concern falls across his features as he sees her bandaged arm, and he frowns as he sits on the bumper, putting his hand on her elbow as she turns to face him.  "Are you all right?"

She looks him over to see if he's been injured, but she can't see anything except for a few scratches on his face, ones that resemble the ones she has from the glass breakage.  She would be more concerned if he didn't seem so calm and cool, with the tie on his shirt loosened and a few buttons undone at his collar.  His suit coat is draped over his arm, and the sleeves on his white dress shirt are rolled up above his elbows.

"Yeah," she assures him with a tired smile.  "And you?"  She means to say more, but the cold air cuts through the area like a knife, and, between her sleeveless pink dress and her jacket that's probably ashes in the wreckage, she shivers.  Of course Oliver notices, and suddenly the gray suit coat is draped over her shoulders.  It's a little warmer, so she gathers it around her better.  "Thank you," she mutters, realizing what a scene the two of them must make.  But she's really just too tired to care what anyone thinks about them together.

"No problem.  And it was nothing I couldn't handle," he assures her with a lopsided smile that makes her breath hitch for a moment.  Oliver's smiles are so rare and unexpected that sometimes she can't help but get lost in them.  She shakes her head to clear it, but groans when her vision keeps swimming after she stops.  A wave of nausea runs through her, and she bites down on her lip to keep from covering Oliver's shoes in that nice red wine from earlier.  Concern covers his smile instantly, and he places an arm on her shoulder to steady her.

In a moment of complete fatigue and reckless abandon, she sighs before leaning over, her head falling on Oliver's shoulder.  He seems a little surprised at first, but then his arm reaches around behind her, his hand falling on her forearm gently, even though the bandaged one is against his side.  With a final mental, _What the hell_ , she kicks off her flats and folds her legs under her, causing her to lean into Oliver more.  They sit there together like that for a long, quiet moment, but then she breaks the silence by saying, "Sorry, my head decided to spin without my permission.  Apparently I'm at a risk for a concussion."  She chuckles softly.  "I guess the Vigilante was a nice guy for getting me out of there, but the exploding-arrow-trick kind of messed up my head."  She rubs her ears again, but then is reminded that the ringing is from the explosion.  She bites her lip.  "Sorry, I know you don't like to talk about him."

"I'm slowly changing my mind," he says quietly.  There's a long moment of hesitation before he says slowly, "He can't be that bad if he was smart enough to save you."  The admission causes Felicity's eyes to flick upward of their own accord, but she finds his expression guarded and unreadable.  She finds him so self-conscious that she doesn't even try to ask him about that, but he changes the subject before she can speak, anyway.  "Thea wasn't injured," he says casually, "and I think you had something to do with that.  Thank you."

She's about to roll her eyes, but then she remembers that head movements don't exactly agree with her right now, and she doesn't want to risk it.  "I didn't do anything special," she says dryly.  "I just pushed her and Merlyn through a door.  But I'm glad to hear she's in better shape than the two of us."  She laughs.  "We're a fine pair—like Clark Kent and Diana Prince after a particularly horrible night."  When his eyebrows knit together in confusion, she sighs, frustrated.  "Seriously, you need to pick up a comic book every now and again.  Do Superman and Wonder Woman ring any bells?  I'm talking about their alter-egos.  Not that I'm exactly Wonder Woman material, but, well, you get the point."

"I'm not exactly Superman, either," he replies easily, "so I think that metaphor was flawed from the start."  It strikes her for a moment that he's actually _teasing_ her again, and she can't stop the goofy smile from spreading across her face.

"Well, Mr. Ivy-League-Dropout," she retorts, "it would technically be a _simile_.  But you're right, it wasn't exactly one of my finer moments.  But, hey, cut a girl some slack—my ears are ringing so bad that feel like I need to yell over a sound that isn't there."  She feels more than hears him chuckle in response, and her eyes fall shut for a long moment, trying to fight off the headache that's threatening to attack.  Finally she says quietly, "Detective Lance told me about Mr. Steele.  That's gotta be hard on your family."

Oliver sighs as though the weight of the world has settled on his shoulders.  "He and Thea are close," he says finally, "but I don't think she's had time to process what the cops have told us."  He hesitates before adding, "I don't really even _know_ Walter."  He lets out a humorless chuckle.  "You'd think with five years on an island would give me time to think about the possibility of my mother remarrying, but it was an unexpected surprise to find that my father's right-hand man shares a bed with _my mother_."

By the tone in his voice, Felicity can tell that the subject is a little sensitive, so she changes topics.  She laughs before saying, "You know, I was going to tell you tonight that the club looked amazing, but, well, now's a bad time, isn't it?"

He chuckles again, but this time the sound is pleasant.  "It was under construction before," he replies easily, seeming surprisingly upbeat for someone who just lost a nice investment.  "Now it's just more under construction."  There's a pause before he says, "And I'm glad you liked the setup.  There never would have been a Verdant if you hadn't convinced me to do something _I_ want to do.  So, thank you."

She shrugs as much as she can under the circumstances.  "That's what I'm supposed to do," she replies dryly.  "Friends, remember?  Friends encourage each other, and, apparently, freeze to death so that the other can stay warm," she adds as a particularly violent burst of cold air runs across them.

Oliver chuckles quietly.  "I'm not cold," he assures her quietly, in a tone she can't quite interpret.  Whatever it is, it's combined with a nervous rubbing motion at the top of his knee, and, for the first time, Felicity understands why he always wears long-sleeved shirts.  Scars litter his arm, some looking older than their counterparts, others thicker and angrier than others.

Unable to stop herself, she reaches out a hand, running a line over one of them.  He freezes immediately, and she pulls her hand back in embarrassment, her face already starting to color.  "Sorry," she says quietly.  "I just didn't realize—" she starts, but then stops abruptly as she realizes there's really no good way to end that sentence.

The chuckle that leaves Oliver this time is devoid of humor.  "That I'm damaged?" he answers bitterly, his tone biting and dark.  But, despite the way she flinches, Felicity thinks she might just be getting her first _real_ look at Oliver Queen.  "That I'm even more screwed up now than I was before?"  She's stunned into silence for a long moment, and he finally adds, "I can take just about anything, but if you're going to pity me, I'm going to leave."

Finally mustering up some words, she finishes that sentence because it can't be any worse than where his mind is right now.  "How much you've endured," she says quietly, and his eyes flick down to her.  She pulls away, sitting up so she can look at him— _really_ look at him.  "I just didn't realize how much you've endured," she repeats slowly, careful not to let anything close to pity show in her expression.  She thinks he's about to bolt at any second, and she needs him to understand what she meant.  "You always plaster on smiles and expressions like they're some sort of body armor.  Sometimes you make it easy for me to forget that you've been through Hell and back."  She bites her lip before adding, "And of _course_ you're damaged."  He flinches, already expecting the worst before he hears what she has to say.  "We're all damaged, and we're all screwed up, Oliver.  That makes you _human_."  She hesitates.  "And, for the record, we _all_ have scars.  It's just that some of us wear them on the inside."

He doesn't say anything right away, just pulls her back against his side into the same position, and she knows she's forgiven.  There's a long moment before he sighs, and then finally starts in a whisper, "On the island, I... I had to make some difficult choices—some decisions I'm not proud of."  He releases his breath, then opens his mouth like he's going to say more, but then abruptly closes it.

She puts her hand over his, sitting atop his knee, and she's careful this time not to linger on the scars that he seems so sensitive about.  "A lot has happened tonight," she says sternly, forcefully.  "Everybody here nearly died less than an hour ago.  I think that's enough trauma for one night."  She lances her fingers through his.  "When you're ready to talk about the island, I'm ready to listen.  But not tonight—neither of us can handle it.  So we'll schedule it for another time—when I haven't nearly been blown up and your club hasn't been burned to ash."  She squeezes his hand, searching for a response.  "Okay?" she asks, and he nods once, the motion short and precise, silently telling her he's not capable of words right now.  She finds that fair, though because she seems to have run out, too.

There's a long moment before he finally speaks again, saying, "Will you be all right tonight?"  He must feel the awkwardness set in after that statement, so he continues.  "If you'd like some company, I could stay on your couch."  His voice and expression are neutral, and she's genuinely surprised to find that it's an open gesture.  He doesn't expect her to say yes, he's not trying to convince her—he's just genuinely concerned.

She bites her lip before saying quietly, "Barry's in town for a few days with business stuff, so he's actually crashing for a few days."  She rushes on to add, "But I appreciate the offer—it was really nice of you to ask."  She doesn't add that, under different circumstances, she just might have taken him up on it.

 

 

* * *

 

Oliver isn't surprised when Felicity finally nods off on his shoulder, and he's more than a little relieved to have his thoughts to himself for a moment.  She's unfortunately been through a lot tonight, and he's glad to see her resting.  He's also grateful that she turned his offer down; he was an idiot to ask, since he plans on checking on her as the Arrow, but the thought of leaving her alone in that apartment just doesn't seem right.  Barry is a complication, but one he can maneuver around easily, he thinks.

But Felicity is never what he expects.  When she reached out and touched one of the scars on his arm, he thought that it was that night with Laurel happening all over again.  He saw the pity in her eyes, and he doesn't want anyone's sympathy for the scars.  Because, despite what he faced on that island, he has never worked so hard in his life as he did in those five years.  It was pure Hell, sure, but he _earned_ those scars, and he doesn't want anyone's sympathy for being able to survive.  But Felicity didn't downplay his ability to survive, she didn't tear up; she just accepted that fact without judgment.  And when he told her he was damaged, she didn't try to convince him otherwise.  _We're all damaged_ , she had said, including herself in the plural.  And, well, that means something to him because Felicity is the highest-functioning person he's ever met in his life.

And when he tried to talk to her about the island, she stopped him.  Not because she didn't want to listen, but because she knew he wasn't ready to tell her yet.  It was meant to be his apology for the way he spoke to her, but she didn't need it.  She understood what he meant, even without him saying the words.  It's a surprisingly nice feeling, much like the feel of her head against his shoulder.

He nearly lost her tonight.  The thought has crossed his mind at random intervals since he pulled her out through that busted window.  Somehow the thought is unbearable, though, a few months ago, he didn't even know her name.  He then decides that's probably why he can't imagine being without her; she's still a riddle, a mystery to him, and he's curious to see what other secrets she's hiding behind that fuchsia-painted smile and two-toned glasses.

Because Felicity Smoak, in his experience, is a naturally guarded, secretive person, and he accepts that she's always going to be a mystery to him.  But that isn't going to stop him from trying to solve her.

The clearing of a throat snaps him out of his thoughts.  At first he thinks it's a paramedic who wants his ambulance back, but then he sees Thea smiling mischievously and it immediately causes him to prepare for the worst.  "Oh, I _never_ expected to see _you_ like this, Ollie."

He knows that tone, he knows that look, but Oliver doesn't understand a word of what she's saying.  "I don't understand," he says flatly, though he's set on edge because her entire demeanor promises nothing good.

But, mercifully, Thea's entire expression changes at those words.  "You really _don't_ ," she asks slowly, "do you?"  She studies him for a moment, frowning as she leans against the ambulance next to him, on the side opposite Felicity.  "God, Ollie, you're hopeless sometimes," she adds finally, with a roll of her eyes.

Before she can respond, Oliver sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and he sees the kid from before—Barry, he remembers the name vaguely—talking to one of the detectives, who points to the ambulance.  Thea looks between Oliver and the direction of his gaze, frowning in confusion at the sudden change in demeanor of her brother.  Oliver knows he's being petty and stupid, but something about Barry Allen sets his nerves on edge.  He takes a deep breath, though, for Felicity, knowing she wouldn't appreciate it if he wasn't civil.  The last time the two met, she had given him a disapproving look, and he doesn't exactly like that look.

So he takes a deep breath as Barry walks up with a goofy grin on his face.  He opens his mouth to speak, but then thinks twice about it when he sees Felicity asleep on Oliver's shoulder.  His eyes widen in surprise before he says, "Wow she must be more tired than I thought.  Sherly doesn't fall asleep without a locked door between her and the world."  It's interesting information, and now Oliver understands why she fought to stay awake so hard that night with the Arrow.  Barry turns his attention to Oliver.  "How are you tonight, Mr. Queen?"

Even though Felicity is still asleep, Oliver feels like he owes her a night of civility toward this kid she seems so fond of.  He forces a smile before saying, "As well as I can be under the circumstances.  And Mr. Queen was my father, Barry.  Oliver will work fine."  He motions toward Thea.  "This is my sister, Thea—I don't think you two have met."

Thea's eyes narrow immediately, and Oliver knows that look, too.  It's different from the last one, but it does nothing for his nerves.  It's like watching a timer on a bomb, Oliver thinks.  "You can call _me_ Miss Queen," she says hotly, prickling.  Oliver shoots her a glance, but she ignores it.  Barry lets out an awkward chuckle in response, and Oliver can't blame him—Thea can be terrifying in the right situations.

"Let me wake her up," Oliver says finally, already knowing Felicity would tear them all apart if Oliver tried to carry her to Barry's car.  He shakes her shoulder gently.  "Hey," he says gently, but, instead of waking, she nestles deeper into his shoulder.  He tries to ignore the feeling that runs through him—whatever it is—and says instead this time, "Felicity."  Something in his voice must sound familiar because she actually wakes up this time, eyes blinking wildly as she tries to pull her mind out of the fog.  Her eyes finally focus on Oliver, and there's a question in her expression.  "You fell asleep," he says gently, by way of explanation, and he can see realization dawn in her eyes as she remembers all that happened.  "Barry is here to take you home."

For some reason unknown to him, she turns scarlet before sitting upright so fast she wobbles.  He steadies her with a hand on her elbow, and she stretches her feet back down into her shoes, and, for the first time, Oliver notices there are _pandas_ on them.  He has to fight back a smile—every time he answers a question about her, another pops up in its place.  Still, he knows it's not the time to ask, so he rises from the bumper of the ambulance and offers her a hand up, which she takes with a smile. Felicity apparently only does half-asleep conversation with the Arrow.

She takes off his jacket as she rises, handing it back to him.  "Thank you," she says, her voice still coated in sleep.  "I mean, not just for the coat.  For the company, for letting me fall asleep on your shoulder like a five-year-old..."  She shakes her head, forgetting that ringing in her ears, and Oliver steadies her when she wobbles.  "For everything.  I appreciate it."

He nods once, letting her know it was no problem whatsoever.  "Get some rest," he says finally, after a long moment of just looking at her.  "You've earned it after all of this.  Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she murmurs back, and Oliver is forced to watch her walk away.  He doesn't like it, but he'll be seeing her soon enough.  After all, the Arrow _did_ promise her tonight, so he'll see her again.

Thea rolls her eyes and scoffs before walking away, too.  "God," she groans under her breath, "watching you two makes me wonder how we're a species."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a softer soundtrack because of the emotion and softer, more tender moments. But, yeah, here it is:
> 
> "Hanging by a Moment" - Lifehouse  
> "Miserable at Best" - Mayday Parade  
> "Breathe" - Faith Hill  
> "Tell Me You Love Me" - Neon Trees  
> "Golden Slumbers" - The Beatles  
> "Good Enough" - Evanescence  
> "Same Mistake" - James Blunt


	17. Removable Hardware Decryption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity needs a distraction, and the Arrow proves to be just the one she needs. Not in the fun way--get your mind out of the gutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/7LCgoMzeuIXwwDBUhrF3b8). (The version of "Falling Awake" is live because a recorded version isn't available on Spotify.)
> 
> I LOVE THIS CHAPTER. I know that sounds horribly conceited, but I'm just proud of how this turned out. It might be a little fluffy. And maybe Felicity's a little adorable. :) I'm just pleased as punch with how it turned out--IN TWO DAYS. I spent too long writing the side-story to follow 16, so it only took two days for this. :) I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Reviews/comments are much appreciated, but thanks for reading! :)
> 
> **Housekeeping note:** The revisions are up for this series. I've made changes and it should look better now that I have it all fixed properly, but I'll let you be the judge. If you see any errors I missed (I'm sure there were a few), please let me know. Also, I decided to go ahead and add chapter summaries, so let me know what you think of those. I personally like it; they add to the sense of mystery. :P

Felicity is yet again examining the book when she gets the call. Again, she's bested by Walter's book and its cryptic secrets, but she's determined now, more than ever, to break the code. This was the last thing Walter entrusted to her—possibly the last thing he'll _ever_ entrust to her—and she is _not_ going to fail. Because she can hack an NSA satellite, for God's sake, so she _knows_ she can hack a _book_. However, the book has better ideas, and she wonders for a moment if it has some sort of computer brain that can learn her style of hacking. Then she tells herself she's being ridiculously paranoid, but it's after two in the morning so her brain probably isn't functioning right anyway.

The Batman ringtone interrupts her thoughts, and she immediately reaches over to her burner phone, which always stays on her. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" she answers, frowning but mostly just trying to be difficult. "I mean, you can't just call me at two a.m. and expect that I'll answer on the first ring."

"But you did," he points out—rather haughtily, she might add. Her two a.m. logic is flawless for someone who's been up since six, and, well, she'd actually like to _sleep_ at some point in the night. If he's calling, then it's going to be horribly out of the question for her. His projects always take far too long to work on, and, even with copious amounts of coffee, she probably can't pull thirty-six hours without sleep.

"You know," she replies in a tired, defeated tone, "I don't poke holes in _your_ two a.m. logic. I'd appreciate it if you extended the same courtesy." He chuckles before she continues, "And I have to work tomorrow, but I haven't slept since last night. So, please, _God_ , tell me that whatever you have can be solved in thirty minutes." There's a long pause on the line, and she waits in anticipation for him to say, _Gee, that's okay, Felicity; go back to bed_. Even though she knows he probably doesn't say things like "gee," but a girl can dream.

"It can wait," he says finally, and she thinks it's surprisingly considerate. He could just as easily have said something like, _This is important and I need you now_ , but he's actually thinking about what's best for her. It's a nice feeling that helps solidify the fact that they're really not colleagues or partners-in-justice any longer; they're almost like _friends_. Which is weird and probably more two a.m. logic, but Felicity thinks that this is progressing like a friendship.

Well, except for that thing after he saved her from the fire, and again when he came to check on her. That turned weird too quickly, and she's glad they're pretending that entire scene didn't happen. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and she has a feeling that he doesn't like her snooping. Well, if he wanted someone who didn't care who he was, well, he should have hired a robot and not an IT girl who grew up on Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Phryne Fisher, and Adela Bradley. Felicity likes puzzles, and her brain turns mysteries into puzzles that need to be solved. Which is why she can't let the damn book go.

She shakes her head, knowing that he wouldn't ask unless it was important. "I probably wouldn't sleep, anyway," she admits finally. "I have a mystery in my lap, and I need it solved. So you'd be doing me a favor by distracting me. Please tell me it's something _really_ interesting—my mind has a tendency to wander."

"I've noticed," he says flatly, and by the time she realizes what he's said, he's already speaking again. It's true, but that's no reason to be a rude asshole about it. "And it's an encrypted drive from Blackhawk Protection Squad. We—" There's a sigh, then he changes his wording. " _I_ think the group at Blackhawk be responsible for the armored truck robberies in the city recently."

She frowns. " _You_ , not you and Not-Vigilante?" she asks, but then a wry smile crosses her face. "I sense trouble in paradise—are you two having a lovers' quarrel?" When there's dead silence on the other end of the line for a long moment, she finally says, "Okay, tough crowd. I get it—sore subject." She sighs. "We'll need my computers at QC for this—I'm not properly equipped here to decrypt a drive like that here. And I'll need a few hours." She sighs as she looks at the clock. "Good news is, it looks like I won't be late to work." She frowns. "Which is good, because my car's in the shop and I won't have to ride the perpetually-late, smelly-feet bus to work." She raises an eyebrow. "I'm guessing that transportation is included with this mystery-solving experience?" She isn't sure if the man owns a vehicle, but she's not going to _walk_ to QC from here. It's not really a good part of town to walk through at _any_ time, much less two a.m. But she has it on good authority that it's a _fantastic_ time to go buy drugs.

"It can be," he agrees easily, showing how much of a hurry he's in. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She stops him by saying, "Give me thirty minutes before you leave. I'm probably going to just clock in after this, I'll need a little time to actually look like an IT employee. Can you do that?"

"It won't be a problem," he assures her. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Don't wear anything with a skirt. And make sure your shoes don't fall off easily." Before she can ask, he's ended the call, leaving her to gape into the phone.

She asks Saphira, "What the _hell_ did _that_ mean?" And—no surprise—Saphira doesn't answer. "Oh, good God, I'm having a serious conversation with my dog," she mutters, rising from the couch and heading into her bedroom. She continues, mostly to keep herself awake, "I'd go home to where things make sense, but I'm already home, and things _still_ aren't making sense. Sokka's wisdom has failed me."

It doesn't take her long to get dressed, and she decides that her black dress pants will work nicely, as well as her panda flats. Besides, they make her smile, and if anything can get her through the day, it would be those shoes. Getting dressed takes less time than she anticipated, because she was still clothed from work the previous day, so she sits down on the sofa, her mind wandering a little.

It's odd that the Arrow and the Not-Vigilante had so serious an argument—those two have been working together in high-stress situations for at _least_ two months. And if that isn't enough to tear apart their partnership, then it must be something a little bigger. So she figures that it must have something to do with Blackhawk Protection Squad. Bored and desperate to stay awake, she pulls out her laptop and does a little research. Seems it's owned by an ex-military guy—no surprises there—and it hires a private security detail. Bored, she hacks into their mainframe (amateurs—that encryption went out _years_ ago), and digs through their employee files. Some things on there are far too encrypted for her to access, but the employee files are not. She wonders if the Arrow planted a new employee; after all, she remembers the police report saying he was in guard uniform during that Iron Heights thing, so maybe it's a thing. The new employee files aren't hard to find, so she clicks through them. And then promptly drops her mobile mouse when she sees one she recognizes.

John Diggle—Oliver's bodyguard.

Then it all clicks. The voice over the phone, the ex-military stance, the general demeanor. He's working with the Arrow in his spare time, just like she is. She looks up a quick military record, not surprised to find he served under the same guy who now runs Blackhawk—a guy who apparently saved Mr. Diggle's life at some point in his career. Well, that would be a good reason for dissent—the man who saved his life might be guilty of armed robbery. That's a pretty good reason for the tension between them, and Felicity thinks it has to be rough on the Arrow to go after this guy, all the while knowing that it will probably upset his colleague.

Her phone picks up the Batman ringtone again, and she nearly knocks her laptop out of her lap. Thank God, though, that he called instead of came to see her. It wouldn't be good if he saw how far she's come on the hunt for the Arrow. Not at all. "Where are you?" she asks after she answers, and she doesn't mean to come off so breathy.

"Waiting in your parking space in the garage," he answers, then ends the call. She's getting sick of him doing that; after all, it's not exactly difficult to say "goodbye." He does it most nights after she's helped him, so it's not like it's a _horribly_ big deal. She huffs before locking Saphira in the spare bedroom—who protests this loudly by screaming—and she climbs down the stairs to her parking space.

It's honestly one of the weirdest, most beautiful scenes she's ever had the pleasure to see. He's casually leaning against the back wall of the garage, his arms crossed over his chest, and one foot crossed over the other with only the toe of his boot touching the ground. His head is down, but she knows he's too alert not to be paying attention. And he's standing in front of a very nicely made, sleek, black motorcycle.

She turns on her heel immediately, walking the other direction. She doesn't know where she's going, but she knows what she's _not_ doing—which is getting on the damn bike. "Oh, no," she says flatly. "Oh _hell no_. This girl does _not_ ride on motorcycles. I crack encryptions and do IT work, not ride a motorcycle. Bring it by tomorrow night, and I'll help you then. Okay, see you later."

She thinks she's in the clear when he grabs her wrist, spinning her to face him. There's something about him that just squashes every thought in her head for a moment—long enough for him to put his hands on her shoulders and say, "Felicity, I need you." From anyone else, it would be just a casual statement, but, well, they don't really _do_ casual statements. He's too close, and he's _way_ too intense. All the breath rushes out of her in one big sigh, and she thinks her face might actually be on fire this time. When she honestly can't respond to what he's saying, he chuckles. "I didn't know you were afraid of motorcycles."

She rises to the bait this time, indignant. "Yeah, well, a motorcycle is just a nice, efficient way to get yourself killed. And I have to have a weakness. It could be worse—it could be a rock that actually doesn't exist. Or yellow light. Imagine that—someone walks around in a canary yellow shirt, and suddenly you're powerless. Lamest idea ever. And don't even get me started on—"

"Felicity," he says, jolting her out of her torrent of thoughts. He hesitates before finally asking, "Do you trust me?"

The answer is obvious and doesn't even take any thought. "Of course," she says instantly, and even she doesn't expect the slight hurt in her voice. As if he has to ask that _now_ —they've already proven this time and time again. They've _had_ this conversation: she trusts him, he trusts her, and it's going to eventually lead to their collective downfall. But for the moment, it's what makes theirs a strong partnership.

He leaves her to pick up a motorcycle helmet, which he passes to her. "Then trust me to keep us alive," he says simply, the helmet hanging between them in a silent offer.

She swipes it out of his hand angrily, knowing when she's been beaten. Unexpectedly, an arrogant smile flashes across his face, so wide that it exposes his teeth, and that just pisses her off. "Yeah, you won this one," she says flatly, waving her hands as she slips the helmet over her head. "But you don't have to be such a smug bastard about it. I've won a lot of arguments with you, and I'm never so cocky about it."

She doesn't hear him move closer, and she jumps when she feels his hands fall over hers, helping her with the helmet. It's a little bulky, but she finds herself very glad that at least her head will be protected through this endeavor. He helps her onto the motorcycle—which is good because she nearly falls on her well-protected head—and then climbs on in front of her. "Hold on to me tight," he says then, starting the bike at the same time.

Somehow, her mind decides it's a good time to betray her, and she hears herself say, "I always imagined you saying that under different circumstances." He half-turns back toward her to give her a look to end all looks, and she's glad he can't see how red her face is. "Why does my mouth do this to me? You know what I meant."

"I have no idea what you meant," he says flatly, and, with that corner of his mouth turned up, she thinks he might be toying with her. It takes him a moment before he adds, "But I'd like to find out." It's almost flirty, which is weird because he's, well, the _Starling City Vigilante_. Abruptly, he takes her hands and pulls them around his waist. A little squeak of surprise leaves her at the quick motion, but she is appreciative of the opportunity to tell just how fit the man is. And she can attest that he is very much in good shape.

She yelps when he takes off into the garage, going way too fast for her liking. She does as he asks and tightens her grip around him, her eyes closed because she does _not_ want to see how this ends. She surprised at one point that his still is managing to breathe; she holds him so tight that her fingers are starting to hurt. He twists and turns through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic with ease. At one point, she opens her eyes, and he takes a turn _way_ too sharp. And, judging by the grin on his face, he's doing it on purpose. She wraps one arm under his, weaving it up to grasp the top of his shoulder so that she can slap his other shoulder with her free hand. "Not funny," she yells at him over the sound of traffic.

When they arrive at Queen Consolidated, she takes the opportunity to slap him again, but she thinks the effect might be minimized because she takes so long to let go of him. She more falls than slides off the motorcycle, and she stumbles a bit, her head in a fog from the driving and the lack of sleep. The Arrow puts a hand on her shoulder before saying, "Are you okay?"

She nods. "Yeah, I think so," she answers, wondering why her eyes won't really focused. She hates being in a daze. "I don't think you should take me for a ride anymore," she blurts, then realizes how that sounds to the casual listener. Her face turns crimson, and she gets another one of those looks that say a lot of things at once. "You knew what I meant," she says tiredly, for the second time that night. "When I get tired, my thoughts get garbled."

"I'll meet you upstairs," is all he says this time, but she thinks she can see a smile on his face.

Once she reaches her office, she sits down at her computer, not surprised to see him already sitting there. It's a lot easier, she thinks, when you don't have to climb stairs or use the elevator. The drive is sitting on her desk already, so she plugs it into her computer and sees what happens. The whole thing is surrounded in layers of encryption, so she sets up an algorithm to decrypt the thing with a few keystrokes. It will take a while—longer than she could on her own—but her eyes are starting to get fuzzy.

She gets up from her desk and starts to leave, when he asks, "Where are you going?"

She waves a hand. "That will be done in a few hours—I'm using computers to decrypt computers. There's a _really_ nice sofa in the lounge. I'm taking a nap so I can survive tomorrow." She frowns. "Well, today, I guess. I'm not sure if it's early or late anymore." She waves a hand and shakes her head to clear it. "Anyhow, you can come with me or stay here, but don't wander. I'll have to clean up the security footage, so it would be easier if you didn't snoop."

Immediately, he's on his feet, and they both walk down the hallway to the lounge area. She admires the couch a little too long, and the Arrow sits down on one end of it. She sits next to him, trying to sleep sitting up, but it really doesn't work for her. Without a word, she slides her head onto his shoulder, and she's rather surprised when his arm folds around her. She can't get comfortable there—her legs won't fold up on the sofa right—but he notices and gently eases her head down into his lap. She tenses, but, quietly, he says, "Get some rest—you've earned it." She's too tired to tell him he's right and that she does deserve an actual night of sleep, but she settles herself, and her eyelids fall of their own accord.

"Wake me before sunrise," she says to him somewhat sleepily, as she positions herself just right on his thigh, her legs stretching across the length of the sofa and her feet hanging off a little. Her shoes drop against the floor, and she reminds herself to go pick them up later. "It should be done by then, but, if not, I can text you the information once it finishes." She hesitates before saying, "If you want to call me, you can go—I'll be fine here."

Her eyes are closed, so she can't see his face, but his voice takes on an odd quality as he replies, "I'll stay." Another tone, this one gentle and calm, enters his voice as he says, "Goodnight, Felicity."

"Goodnight," she murmurs back, and then she's out.

 

* * *

 

Oliver stares at the sleeping girl in his lap, wondering how she's ended up sleeping on him twice in as many visits. Of course, she doesn't know that, but he does admire the level of trust she has for him—for _both_ of his identities. He thought earlier when she admitted that she dislikes motorcycles that he wouldn't be able to convince her. But then he had asked if she trusted him, and she almost sounded as though he'd _insulted_ her. Four words, though, and he'd had her on that motorcycle, terrified or not: "Do you trust me?" He hadn't realized until then how resolute her faith is in him. Part of him marvels at the idea of having someone believe in him, but the other part of him is _terrified_.

But now he's noticing the attraction. She seems inexplicably drawn to the hooded vigilante, to the Arrow, and he can't exactly understand why. He thought that, previously, she'd been flirting with him, but tonight confirmed it. On purpose, he'd teased her over her minor slip-up about holding onto him tight, and he knew from her reaction that she has some sort of delusional crush on the Arrow. But, then again, she seems to be more coy around Oliver, tries to be more mysterious. And Oliver knows from experience that women don't try to be mysterious around a man unless they're trying to convince them to unravel the mystery.

And he saw her after that fiasco at the club—she feels drawn to him because she sees herself as damaged. He doesn't know exactly why she feels that way because she's, without question, one of the strongest people he's ever met. And for once, strength doesn't translate to physical prowess. She's strong because she tries to survive in his world—of vigilantes, of being targeted by both sides, of clandestine affairs—and she does so without becoming dark or jaded. If there's anything he's learned over the past few months, it's that Felicity Smoak is a fighter.

Most have guns or fists, but she fights with knowledge and sheer determination.

He looks out the window, and the first touches of sunlight spread across the city. He sighs, hating to wake her, but knows it's necessary. "Felicity," he says gently, shaking her shoulder.

She bolts upright, looking a little disoriented. One side of her ponytail is horribly frizzy from lying against his leg for the past three hours. She stands upright immediately. "Right, encryption," she says, starting to storm off back to her station, leaving Oliver to follow behind. On the way, she catches sight of her appearance in the mirrored surface of the refrigerator, and she groans. "I should _not_ have taken that nap—I look like Frankenstein's bride. She sighs as she pulls her ponytail loose, and her hair falls to her shoulder blades.

She starts to pull her hair back up, but Oliver puts a hand on her shoulder, stopping her mid-motion. For some reason, he feels the need to stop her, but, well, he knows better to get into squabbles like this. "Leave it," he says. It comes out as a demand, but he means it as a suggestion. She gives him that look—the you'd-better-explain-now-please look, the one accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a hand on her hip—so he adds with less confidence, "It looks fine long. Leave it be."

She rolls her eyes, but rolls the elastic up onto her wrist instead of pulling her hair back in it. She straightens her clothes a little, then turns crimson as she looks down at her bare feet. "Shoes," she says by way of explanation, her voice still seeming like she's half-asleep.

Oliver stops her, easing her down on a chair next to a cafeteria table. "I'll get them," he tells her. "Just try to wake up a little—you look like you're on autopilot."

She rubs at her face a little and yawns softly, propping her elbow on the table and resting her head on her hand. He shakes his head in amusement before going to retrieve her shoes. She's so determined that, sometimes, she fails to notice the obvious. He admires the work ethic and the loyalty to the cause, but they have a moment before everything must be finished.

He drops her shoes in front of her, and she slides her feet into them, seeming more awake this time. "Okay," she says, standing. "Quit wasting time—we have things to do." He has to stifle an actual laugh at that, before he follows her back to her cubicle.

He sits behind her as she checks the data and the decryption, staying quiet so she can concentrate. After a long moment, she pulls up another screen and starts typing into it, then runs an emerald green fingernail across the screen as she analyzes the data.

He wonders if it's coincidence or if she even _knows_ she's doing it. First the green dress at the Christmas party, and now the nail polish. It's almost as if she's trying to mark herself as his, trying subtly to let everyone know that she works for the Arrow, and that to offend her is to bring down his wrath. But then he thinks he's being ridiculous, and she's probably not putting that much thought into it. Either way, part of him wants her to stop, as seeing that color on her brings out the most possessive side of him.

The decidedly _male_ part of him.

Finally, she says, "You were right—these confirm that members of Blackhawk are pulling off armored car heists. They've got a list here of all the hits so far and their locations." Her face turns grave. "The next one's scheduled in about twenty minutes, on the other side of town. You probably need to go if you're going to make it." She frowns. "What should I do with this?" She closes her programs, then pulls the drive out of place, holding it out to him.

"I'll call Lance as soon as this is over," he decides, taking the drive from her. "There isn't enough time for the police to get there. Someone needs to stop it, and it will have to be me." He moves to leave, but her hand falls on his bicep and he knows this conversation isn't over.

It's a weird sight, her green nail polish against the leather of his suit, matching almost perfectly. "Just be careful, okay?" she says, frowning in concern. "Those guys have military weapons. Not that I don't think you can take them, but you use arrows. Don't be an idiot."

He tilts her chin upward, wanting nothing more than to cup her cheek, but that gesture didn't lead to good places the last time. Spending time with Felicity is doing something to him he doesn't quite understand, but he's not ready to analyze that yet. "I'll come back in one piece," he assures her. It doesn't seem to convince her, so he pries her hand off of his bicep before staring at her nails. "You wear green well," he says, both teasing her and referring to that stunning green dress she decided to torment him with at the Christmas party. Part of him wants to kiss her hand just to see how she reacts, but then he decides he's teased her enough for one night.

She flushes, as expected, and with one, "Goodnight, Felicity," he's swinging out her window to his motorcycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Human" - The Killers  
> "We're Not Gonna Take It" - Twisted Sister  
> "What You Want" - Evanescence  
> "Falling Awake" - Tarja  
> "Can't Get You Out of My Head" - Kylie Minogue  
> "Sins of My Youth" - Neon Trees  
> "Anytime You Need a Friend" - The Beu Sisters


	18. Virus Detection and Removal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity shows up to provide support for a friend, but that kind of ends when she's the one delivering bad news. Now with 30% more Papa Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/6Yo1Asrh82zES7GHBRHjJS). (Excludes "With a Little Help from My Friends" because it isn't on Spotify.)
> 
> Gah, this chapter. I like how this chapter turned out, but THE GETTING THERE PART. Seriously, it took me FOREVER to pull this out of my head and put it on paper. And the bonus scene was COMPLETELY UNEXPECTED. I didn't plan to do it, but it was fun. :) Anyhow, I'll let you determine for yourself what you think about it. :) Reviews/comments are much appreciated, but I'm glad if you'll simply read it. :)
> 
> **New side story on Tuesday.** It will be called "System Response," and it's kind of different in placement than the rest. More on that, though, when it actually goes up. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> **Also, because I have been absolutely _horrible_ about responding to reviews, look for a one-shot to serve as an apology. I promise I'm working through them, but I want to say I'm sorry.**

Felicity flies through the halls of the hospital, just below a run to avoid unnecessary attention.  It's the first time Oliver has ever called her and sounded distraught, so she knows that, despite his insistence that he's okay, he's probably freaking out a little.  And no one should have to freak out alone.  Sure, his mother will be there, too, but Oliver will feel the need to be strong for her.  He's been in her life for so little time, but yet Felicity knows him so well already.

She knows she has the right hallway because he's standing outside the room, leaning against the wall.  He drags a hand over his face and sighs deeply, staring at the ceiling.  He may be stoic, but Felicity knows this is his version of hysterics.  He hears her heels click against the desolate hallway, and he looks up.  "Felicity?" he asked, and she's almost insulted by how surprised he seems.  Did he seriously think she'd let him sit here and worry alone?

She hugs him without any preamble whatsoever, and she can feel, more than hear, his deep sigh.  It sounds almost as if she's removed the weight of the world from his shoulders.  The hug lingers a little, but she pulls back and asks, "How is Thea?"

He shakes his head, frowning a little as he releases her.  "Fine, considering," he says quietly.  "There are some bruises and cuts, and her elbow dislocated when she hit the tree.  The doctors think she had it tight against the steering wheel, and the impact forced it back."  He frowns more deeply.  "And it doesn't help things that she's not speaking to our mother.  She basically kicked her out of the hospital room."  He shakes his head.  "It's just the typical Queen family drama.  I liked it better when  _I_  was the reckless one."

She reaches over and squeezes his hand before releasing it.  "Hey, she's okay," she reminds him gently.  "Yeah, it could have been worse, but it  _wasn't_.  She'll be discharged in a few hours, and it'll all be fine."

He doesn't say anything, just lets a touch linger at her elbow for a moment.  There's a very long moment where the two stare at each other. She isn't used to sharing pointed looks like that, so she just stands there until Oliver finally says, "I think she'll probably want to see you."

Felicity nods, and he holds the door open for her as she walks in.  "Hey, Felicity," Thea says, sounding a little groggy.  She's sitting upright on one end of the hospital bed, still wearing the dress that Felicity presumes is from her birthday party, and one arm is in a black sling.  "Guess I really know how to party, huh?"  She points to Felicity's hair, still hanging at her shoulders from where the Arrow convinced her to wear it long.  "You should wear your hair down more often."

Felicity chuckles, trying to ignore the heat on her face at the thought of the Arrow.  "So I've been told.  And nice try—your brother already told me you wrecked your car."  She's gentle around the probably very sore arm, but she hugs her.  "It sucks that your car was totaled, but I'm glad it wasn't you."

Thea shrugs.  "It doesn't hurt too bad now that I have all of those pills in me," she says easily, acting very un-Thea-like, and Felicity notices for the first time that her pupils are the size of saucers.  No wonder she's acting weird; the girl is high as a kite on something, but Felicity doesn't want to know the details.  She knows enough about drugs as her time as an observer in high school and college to learn that much.

Felicity turns on her heel instantly, facing Oliver.  "Can I talk to you for a second?" she asks him.  She knows what's going to happen next; an education from life in the Glades has taught her that much.  She's watched it happen to too many people in her lifetime, and now she thinks it's time to warn Oliver.

He gives her a confused look, his eyebrows falling over his eyes to give him a squinty-eyed appearance.  "Sure," he says finally, with an ease that's probably fake.  Felicity knows her own expression isn't so collected, so he probably recognizes the panic.

He pulls the curtain around Thea's bed, which causes her to complain, but she doesn't do anything about it.  Oliver takes Felicity by the elbow and pulls her into the far corner of the room, and he pulls her in close.  For a moment, Felicity thinks she's so insane she's hallucinating his eyes falling to her lips, but then she blinks and it's over.  "You look panicked," he says quietly, his eyes boring into hers with intensity.  His hand hasn't yet left her elbow, and the combination makes her feel like she's about to melt.  "Felicity, what's wrong?"

"Um," she starts eloquently, but then she quietly continues, "I don't know how to say this to you, but Thea is  _baked_."  Oliver stares at her a moment, that same look of confusion falling over his features.  "She's high, Oliver.  As a kite on a nice, breezy day."

" _What?_ " he finally says, frowning.  Felicity frowns because he is most certainly  _not_  going to like the worse news, when it comes to that point.  It's hard enough for her to tell him his _baby sister_  is in a drug-induced stupor, but the worst is yet to come.

"You notice how she's not really  _upset_  about wrecking her car?" Felicity points out.  "The foggy look, the glazed eyes, the pupils big enough to set teacups on?  That's a high if ever I've seen one."  He gives her an odd look.  "That I've  _seen_ ," she emphasizes.  "I've never actually been high."  She pauses, tapping an index finger against her chin.  "Well, there was that one time in college where I accidentally grabbed a pot brownie.  Which would have been fun, but, as it turns out, I'm allergic to nuts.  And that was  _not_  a fun trip to the hospital, let me tell you.  I mean—"

"Felicity," he says, his voice taking on five different meanings at once.  The way he does that reminds her of the Vigilante, and, really, she needs to stop comparing the two.  But she does see a hint of a smile on his face, so she's glad her incessant rambling makes  _someone_  smile.

"Right," she says, shaking her head to clear it.  "The point is, I've seen enough illegal fun to know it when I see it."  He opens his mouth to speak, but she holds her hand up.  "And that's the bad news.  It gets worse."

He frowns, and she does not like to see him frown like that.  Oliver has had enough heartbreak in his life that Felicity doesn't want to be the one to cause him more, but she thinks it would be better if he wasn't blindsided first.  "How much worse?" he dares ask, the brave soul.

Felicity bites her lip, looking away.  Okay, she's a weenie and she can't do this because the look on his face is going to be heartbreaking.  She's  _not_  going to do it.  A hand cups her chin, and he tilts her head back so that she's looking at him again.  His eyes are intense, and she's pretty sure he's found some way to hypnotize her without the pocket watch all the stage magicians use.  "Felicity," he says again, this time his voice soft and low but still portraying that same sense of urgency as before.  She even hears the word he can't say at the end:  _Please_.  She frowns because he doesn't play fair.

It all flies out of her at lightning speed.  "Any time there's an accident like this and someone comes in with injuries, they run a panel on the driver's blood," she says quietly.  He freezes, and Felicity knows he already understands what she's going to say next.  "They'll run blood alcohol levels too, but, chances are, she'll pop positive on whatever she's taken.  And then the hospital will be obligated to call the cops, and they'll take her away."  She glances at her watch.  "And, because it's after eleven on a Friday night, Oliver, there's nothing anyone can do about it until Monday.  She's going to spend the weekend in jail—no question."  She watches him run a hand over his face, that same expression of anguish there.  "I'm sorry," she whispers quietly, biting her lip.

He puts his hand on her elbow again, that same gesture that means so little and so much at the same time.  "It's not your fault," he says quietly.  She expects him to throw something soon because there's no way that level of calm can't be forced.  But, surprisingly, he says, "Could you break it to Thea?  She'll think it's a lecture if it comes from me."

She nods once.  "Hey," she says gently, taking a long moment so that his eyes meet hers, "it's going to be all right.  I know you don't think so, but this will work out."  She puts her hand on his shoulder, and his eyes flick to it before meeting hers again.  "You two are tough—you'll get through this."

Their moment is interrupted when Thea calls from the end of her bed, "I think I'm ready to go when the two of you are finished making out over there."  Felicity practically throws herself away from Oliver, cheeks burning, and Oliver frowns, aiming it toward the sister who can't see him because of the curtain.  Moment broken, Felicity thinks it's a good time to break the news to Thea.

She sits down at the end of Thea's hospital bed, next to the girl in question.  "Hey," Felicity says softly, "I want to talk to you about something."  Thea is immediately on guard, but Felicity continues, "Tell me what made you decide to get high tonight."  Thea opens her mouth, probably to lie about it, but Felicity holds her hand up.  "Don't tell me you're not—because I know you're high right now.  But you're not going to get a lecture from me.  I'm your friend, not your mother."

"It was my birthday party, and a friend gave me some of this new stuff," Thea admits finally.  "She called it Vertigo.  I wasn't gonna use it—I don't like to try new stuff until I hear more about it—but then..."  She trails off, turning to look at Oliver.  "But then I saw Mom with  _him_ "—she spits the word with a particular amount of vehemence—"and I just needed to forget.  So I took my car and drove, and I finished off that packet of Vertigo."  She waves her hands.  "And then  _this_  happened."

Oliver turns, running a hand over his face again, so Felicity says, "Oliver, maybe this conversation would be easier on everyone if you waited outside."  He turns, his expression almost hurt, and she rushes to say, "Look, this is going to be hard enough, and you've already heard the important parts.  Catch your breath and let me handle this before you give yourself a heart attack."  She crosses her arms.  "And I can't worry about  _both_  Queen siblings at once, and I think Thea needs my concern more right now.  I need you to—just this once—take a leap of faith and trust me.  Do you think you can do that?"

It's only after that last sentence that she can see the acceptance in the slump of his shoulders and the set of his jaw.  "Of course," he says finally, and she feels like this is the same conversation she had with the Arrow not so long ago, just reversed.  He walks over to Thea and hugs her tightly before kissing her forehead.  "Love you, Speedy," he says quietly, and Thea returns the murmur of affection.

Without another word, he leaves, and Felicity turns to Thea.  "Thea, I get you're under some stress and have some family issues," Felicity says finally.  "Believe me, no one understands that more than me.  But losing yourself in a drug—or a bottle—isn't the best way to do it.  Because the next morning, you just feel shitty and all your problems are still there."

"You don't understand," Thea says flatly, and it stings a little.

"I understand a lot," Felicity says quietly, not backing down.  This is too important to her—to  _Oliver_ —and she's not going to screw this up.  "I understand what it's like to have a parent taken away from you.  I understand what it's like to see things you don't want to, what it's like to be under stress."  She laughs a little bitterly, and Thea decides to pay more attention at the sound.  Felicity sighs.  "I watched my mother lose herself in a bottle—or in any drug she could get her hands on.  And when that didn't work, I watched her go down to the casinos and gamble her life away.  And I know what that does to a person—and the people who love them."  She puts her hand on Thea's.  "You're right, I probably don't understand your situation well enough, but I don't want to see that happen to you.  And the people who care about you don't want to watch that either."

"I'm sorry," Thea says suddenly, and hugs Felicity.  She returns the hug, sighing because the hardest part is yet to come.

"Look," Felicity says, pulling away, "what's done is done, and I get that.  But I think you're going to learn that your actions have consequences."

Thea's eyes narrow in confusion.  "Not if you're a Queen," she replies, and Felicity realizes that's not arrogance.  She's not trying to be arrogant or self-important; she genuinely believes that, because her last name is Queen, she's above every law and rule ever written.

"That goes for everyone," Felicity says flatly, "not just the people who aren't Queens."  God knows she's learned that the hard way—maybe it's not a good idea for her to give Thea this speech when she hasn't learned the lesson herself yet.  After all,  _Felicity_  is the one breaking the law constantly to help the Arrow, and maybe she's realizing that she's not exactly the best role model.  But, then again, she's doing the  _right_  thing, and she understands that being right isn't necessarily the same as being legal.  Maybe she's on that higher plane of reasoning.  "But I think you're going to learn about that tonight, Thea."  She sighs as she prepares to deliver the bad news.  "In a crash like this, Thea, the hospital will test for drugs and alcohol, and they'll have to report that result to the police."  She waves a hand.  "Long story short, you're probably going to jail for the weekend, since the courts don't open back up until Monday."

Before it can even sink in, Oliver opens the door.  "Detective Lance is outside," he says quietly.  He looks absolutely torn between rushing Thea out of here and whatever option in his mind _doesn't_ lead to him in a jail cell right next to Thea's.

Felicity rises and puts her hands on Thea's shoulders.  "Look, it's not gonna be pleasant, but they won't move you until you've had a hearing.  So you'll be in lockup in the SCPD building.  It's not going to be the best thing that ever happened to you, but it's better than Iron Heights."  She hugs her, and Thea wraps her arms around Felicity for the second time that night.

"Is it wrong that I'm scared?" Thea asks, a little nervously.

Felicity takes her arm, leading her out into the hall.  "I think it would be wrong if you weren't," she admits.  After all, Felicity's not exactly excited about the idea that she'll probably end up in a cell by the time all of this is over.  But unlike Thea, she knew there would be consequences, and she accepts them gratefully.

When the enter the hallway, Detective Lance doesn't even seem surprised to see her there.  "Miss Smoak," he says in greeting.  "Why is it that every time anything happens in this damn town, you're there?"  The question earns her an odd look from Thea, but Oliver actually offers the beginnings of a smile before sobering.  Lance takes Thea's arm, slapping cuffs on her hands.  "Thea Queen, you're under arrest for driving under the influence and possession of a illegal substance."  He then proceeds to read off her Miranda rights before starting to haul her off.

"Detective, wait!" she calls, and he turns with a look that must be his equivalent of  _Are you freaking kidding me?_  before pursing his lips.  Felicity shrugs out of her coat before running up to them.  She throws it over Thea's cuffed hands so that she doesn't have to walk out in complete and total shame.  Lance opens his mouth to say something, but Felicity holds up a hand.  "She's scared out of her wits, Detective, and the media will probably swarm like vultures on roadkill.  I'll remove this coat right now if you'll give me  _one_  good reason why she should have to walk out of here in handcuffs for all the world to see."

He doesn't like it, but maybe he has a soft spot for Felicity that she doesn't know about.  "You can pick your coat up on Monday if you need it," he says flatly before he starts hauling Thea out again.

"Thank you, Detective!" Felicity calls behind him, and he completely ignores her, as expected.  She turns back to Oliver, who looks like he could fall apart at any moment.  She weaves her fingers through his.  "She's going to be okay, Oliver," Felicity says quietly.  "I promise."

He offers her a perfectly fake smile, which makes her frown in return.  "You're right," he says easily.  "Thank you for letting her use your coat."

She waves him off.  "Come on.  I'll drive you home."

 

* * *

 

Detective Lance isn't surprised that she's sitting in the lobby when he gets to work that morning, but he's not exactly thrilled to see her, all the same.  He's seen enough of Felicity Smoak for a long while—or at least until he gets his thoughts together about the Hood.  He's still not sure if she's a genuinely good kid or a damned nuisance.  Right now, he's leaning toward the latter.

"Good morning, Detective," she says cheerily, and he frowns.  Of  _course_  she has to be a morning person on top of all of the other things.  That she's that damn chipper at night is one thing, but it's another matter entirely at eight a.m.  "I was wondering if I could talk to you?"  She must notice his hesitation because she adds, "Don't worry—it won't take long.  They told me I could come in a little late if I worked late, but I still have to be in by nine.  And I work late anyway, so I didn't see the big deal."

While her commentary on her job is  _fascinating_ , he brings himself to change the subject as he holds the door to the precinct open.  "Come on," he says tiredly.  "I have exactly five minutes for you."  Actually, he knows he's going to regret this in approximately thirty seconds.  The girl has a way of convincing him her philosophy is correct in the moral sense—but, well, she's not always  _legally_  correct.  God knows her work with the Hood is enough to prove that.

She smiles as she follows him to his desk.  "Actually, the main reason I'm here is just to pick up my coat," she informs him.  "Those are hard to get in in purple—I had to fight through a crowd on Black Friday for that.  You wouldn't believe how tough those blue-haired old ladies are when there's a sale."  He doesn't exactly know what to say to that, but she saves him from having to answer.  "And I have another thing that you might care a little more about."

He hands her the coat, draped over the chair in his office because he knew she'd be in after it at some point today.  "Thank you," she says, putting it on before sitting down at her desk as though she's supposed there.  He slides into his own chair, steepling his fingers as he prepares for whatever babble is to come.  She winces, and he knows he's not going to like whatever comes next.  "I  _may_  have talked to the prosecutor on Thea's case."

"You talked to Iris West?" he says flatly, maybe a little incredulously.  He'd love to be a fly on the wall for that—Ms. West is known to be particularly hard-assed as a prosecutor, and she doesn't really like it when people interfere with her business.  "How did that go?"

He nearly spits coffee when she says, "Pretty well, actually."  She waves a hand nonchalantly, as though he shouldn't be surprised.  "Iris is a friend of a friend—she's in love with my former foster brother, Barry, and he's in love with her."  He frowns, now learning why most of her juvenile records were so hard to find, though it doesn't explain why the other half is sealed.  She rolls her eyes.  "But of course they're both completely oblivious.  The whole world can see it, but they're still in the dark, you know?"  He snorts because he remembers when she was in the alley with the Hood, and maybe romantic obliviousness is going around.  "Anyway, I explained Thea's situation, and she says she could probably convince the judge to go light on sentencing if she had the arresting officer on her side."  She folds her hands in her lap, looking up at him under her eyelashes.  "That would be you, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't aware," he deadpans, but it doesn't force the smile off her face.  Frowning, he continues, "Look, I'm perfectly willing to let her go to jail, Miss Smoak.  She's broken the law, and if she wasn't a Queen, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."

"But that's where you're wrong, Detective," she corrects.  "This has nothing to do about the Queen family or their power and influence.  This is about a scared little girl in lockup who made a mistake."  With all the finesse of a lawyer, she continues, "As a _minor_ , I might add.  I'm not asking to have Thea's parents pay a fine as a slap on the wrist."  She pulls a file folder from her bag, and he can see a laptop sticking out of it.  "This is a plea bargain deal for community service.  Three thousand hours of it, so she'll have plenty to do instead of drugs and crashing cars."  She smiles, and he does  _not_  like the predatory look of that smile.  "I talked to Merlyn,"—Lance frowns in confusion as she mentions her friend by surname—"and he talked to Laurel.  She's agreed to take Thea in at CNRI for her service deal.  And you know she won't take it easy on Thea just because she's _Thea Queen_."  She lays the file on his desk when he won't take it from her.  "And I'm perfectly willing to start work on that encrypted phone tomorrow if I can get your signature."

Lance blinks twice.  "Miss Smoak, you should be careful," he says flatly.  "I could hold you on blackmail charges right now."  He growls it, hoping to intimidate her and finally gain control of this train wreck.

She doesn't even seem daunted by the warning.  "Legally speaking," she says carefully, "blackmail is defined as an attempt to exact money or anything of value from a person by threats or intimidation."  She smiles.  "I know I haven't threatened you—and surely you don't find _me_ intimidating."

Not that he'll admit it to her, but he finds her intimidating as hell.  Physically, she may not be a threat, but what she lacks in brawn she makes up for tenfold in brains.  And, in his tired, overworked, Monday stupor he's forgotten the first rule of dealing with Felicity Smoak:  never engage in a battle of wits unless you think you're certain your equipment is better.  And he is certain that she's prepared for this all weekend, and she blindsided him with it.  It wasn't a fair fight to begin with, and he knows he should just admit defeat.

He sighs.  "Give me time to look over it," he says finally.  "I'll have it for you by lunch—one way or another."  He looks at her intently.  "Just answer one question for me.  Did Oliver Queen put you up to this?"

He's not surprised when she shakes her head.  "He doesn't have a clue," she says simply.  "This isn't about Oliver.  This is about Thea.  I'm not going to sit her and sing praises of Oliver Queen because they would mostly be lies and you wouldn't want to hear them anyway.  The point is that Thea is still a child, Detective."  She bites her lip, and he thinks what follows will be the only part of her speech that _isn't_ prepared.  "It's my way of repaying a debt to society.  If someone had decided I was a lost cause, I'd probably be situated in a cell right next to hers."  Before he can even ask the sealed file in her record was from a juvenile charge, she adds quietly, "I was one of Mrs. Nagorski's."

He understands immediately.  He dealt with Enid Nagorski for the first half of his career, and he knows the name well.  And now he knows that Felicity Smoak realizes that, considering whatever her circumstances were, she was one of the lucky ones.

It's only that sentence that makes him put his signature on those papers.  "God help me," he says slowly, quietly, "but you've made a believer out of me, Miss Smoak."  He doubts if she completely understands all of the meanings in that sentence because he doesn't even understand.  She's convinced him of so much in the past few weeks.  "You missed your calling," he informs her.  "You should have been a lawyer."

She smiles as she stuffs the now signed documents into her bag.  "The world has enough lawyers, Detective," she replies easily.  "And besides, the world needs more female computer geeks.  We're a minority, you know."  He rises as she does, and he certainly doesn't expect her to hug him.  In fact, he's pretty sure he'd be less surprised if she'd slapped him.  "Thank you so much—I can't tell you how much good you're doing."  And with that, she walks out of his area and out of the of the homicide division.

Lance shakes his head.  Felicity Smoak is the damnedest thing he's ever seen—one minute she's blackmailing him, and the next she's hugging him.  But he has to admit, there's something about the little blonde that makes him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Weightless" - All Time Low  
> "Medicate" - AFI  
> "Rain" - Creed  
> "Don't Let Me Be Lonely" - The Band Perry  
> "Sober" - P!nk  
> "I Knew You Were Trouble" - Christina Grimmie  
> "With a Little Help from My Friends" - The Beatles


	19. File Transfer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity helps the Arrow after he discovers that drugs aren't as much fun as they're cracked up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY I'M RUNNING BEHIND THIS MORNING. I woke up late with a migraine to begin with, and my dog is sick on top of that. So, no, I didn't forget, but I am a little behind.
> 
> Gah, starting this chapter was a pain, but once I got into it, _it was so much fun!_ There's a lot of interplay between characters in this one, which tested me as a writer. I hope you like it! :) Comments/reviews are appreciated, but, as always, thanks just for reading! :)

Felicity jumps when she hears the fateful knock at her window, the one that signifies the Arrow has arrived.  She frowns, hauling herself out of bed and toward her window.  The time is later than usual—three a.m. is _early_ in her world, not late.  And the Arrow doesn't usually risk visiting her so close to sunrise.  Still, she somehow manages not to fall on her face while navigating a still-very-asleep Saphira, and she flicks her bedroom light on out of habit, forgetting for a moment that the Arrow doesn't seem to like light.  She figures it out about halfway to the window, but then she decides she'll go back for it later.  With a couple careful twists of the lock, the window is open, and the Arrow is stumbling in.

She knows immediately that something is very, _very_ wrong with him the moment she opens her window.  He basically drags himself in, and he falls into a crouch as soon as he enters, stopping himself from falling on his face with a hand.  She should probably ask, but she's not sure what kind of shape he's in, so the last thing she wants to do is pressure him further.  Instead, she crouches down, throws one of his arms over her shoulder, and hauls him up into a standing position.

And she's even more certain this time that something is horribly wrong with him because he's leaning more weight on her than the time he was injured in the fight with the Dark Archer.  She watches him walk as she leads him over to her bed, and she doesn't notice a limp.  The problem seems to be that he's unsteady on his own feet, as though the ground is rolling under him.

Even though the room is bathed in the main light that she rarely uses, Felicity hasn't dared to try and look under his hood in the lighter-than-usual conditions.  She decided several weeks ago that, if the Arrow wants her to know who he is, he'll have to tell her.  She may to snoop around clues in her free time, but she knows that's never going to solve the mystery for her, so she'll wait until he's ready to give her the opportunity.

He more falls than sits on the bed, and he immediately says, very quietly, "Turn off the light."  His voice is off—almost weak—as he makes the demand.  Even the synthesizer can't hide that, and she wonders how injured or exhausted he'd have to be to show that weakness to her.

The motion of the bed wakes Saphira.  While her tail starts wagging as she crawls up to the Arrow, she isn't her usual self.  Subdued, she lays her head in his lap and whines loudly.  With what looks like a concerted effort, he raises his hand and lets it fall across the shiba's withers, which quiets her somewhat.  "Saphira, leave him alone," Felicity calls, knowing that _something_ is terribly wrong, but the dog just looks at her, not moving.  Felicity rolls her eyes; clearly she's going to lose yet another argument to her _dog_.

She turns off the main light, allowing the lamp in the corner to be their sole light in the darkness.  "What's wrong?" she asks, not sure what to do.  Then she sees the moisture dripping from his face, and decides to change tacks.  "Hold that thought," she says before running to the bathroom, grabbing a hand towel before coming back.  Hesitantly, she cups his chin, frowning as she realizes how warm he is.  "God, you're hot," she comments as she starts wiping away some of the perspiration, then she can feel her face heat in embarrassment as she realizes what she said.  "I didn't mean it like that.  As in, you have a fever, not like, you're attractive—though a girl can dream.  I mean, it may not be me dreaming, but I don't know because I've never seen your face.  I just meant that I'm probably not the only girl in this city who dreams about you crawling into their window, all gorgeous and muscular, and waking them up in the middle of the night to—"  She groans, and she thinks her face might actually be on fire now, as that sentence wasn't exactly going to end with, "to ask them for help with technical problems."  She really needs to find a way to stop making innuendos every time she speaks.  "Of all the times to let me ramble on," she mutters, " _that_ should have been the one to use my name as a signal to shut up."

She drops the hand towel, also releasing his head, noticing how piercing those eyes are again.  Even dull and tired, his eyes are always sharp, and they make her feel like he can see something she can't. There aren't a lot of eyes like that—not that she spends a lot of time staring into people's eyes—but his seem _awfully_ familiar.   _He_ seems awfully familiar.  Maybe she's getting used to him, starting to see the Arrow as something other than the masked hero in the night.

Her long-winded rambling earns her a breathy, tired chuckle for her efforts.  Quietly, with a strained smile on his face, he asks her, "Waking them up in the middle of the night to do what?"  Her own face betrays her as she goes crimson, and she curses his ability to read her like a book.  But that is _one_ conversation she's not going to revisit. _Ever_.

She takes a deep breath, trying to gain control of the train wreck that has become this conversation.  "Anyway, my point was that you have a fever.  Are you sick?  Because if you are, the Vertigo thing can totally wait.  I don't mind.  Really.  I have Thea all squared away, and those drug dealers will still be around when you—"

"Felicity," he says softly, and this time she's grateful that he's decided to stop her babbling before she can say something _else_ embarrassing.  "I had a chat with the man who produces Vertigo," he informs her, voice strained.  "He left me a parting gift."  He holds out a half-full syringe of what Felicity can only assume to be Vertigo, and it's one hell of a syringe—the last marker is the 20cc line.

"Please don't tell me," she says slowly, "that he injected you with the other half of that syringe."  The look on his face says it all.  "God, you've only had one dose."  She examines the syringe again before she corrects herself.  "Well, maybe more than that.  The point is, you already have _withdrawal_ symptoms after one experience."  She doesn't know a _lot_ about drugs, but she does know that it's a little early for things like that.

"I think he meant for me to overdose," he says simply.  It bothers her how easily he delivers the logic; it's cold, emotionless and analytical, as though the fact the guy wanted him dead is a daily occurrence.  But then she realizes it probably is—he _is_ the Arrow, after all.  "Can you..."  He has to stop for a moment, wincing before he tries again.  "Can you have this analyzed for me?  It could help me find where he's working out of."

She bites her lip, thinking she might be a little out of her league on this one.  Illegal hacking?  She's your girl.  Encryption breaking?  No one can do it faster.  But chemical analysis is _not_ on her résumé, thank you.  It scares her that he seems to understand, turning toward her with a mild frown on his face.  "You can't help me with this one, can you?"  It's supposed to be a question, but he says it like it's a statement of fact.  And she doesn't like it because she can _always_ help him.  She hasn't let him down yet, and, damn it, this isn't going to be the first time.

She frowns, not wanting to say no, but not able to say yes, either.  She taps a finger against her chin thoughtfully, trying to figure out—  And she's an idiot because chemical analysis has Barry written all over it.  She rises from the bed, using his thigh as leverage to push herself up, clearly not thinking.  She doesn't apologize this time, even though she colors, because her foot-in-mouth disease seems to be particularly bad tonight.  She picks up the phone she _doesn't_ use to contact the Arrow, then goes back to him.  But, before she does, she picks up Saphira, who starts screaming in protests as she tries to go back to the vigilante she apparently loves.  Felicity sits her down on the other side of her bedroom door, shutting it behind her.  Not surprisingly, the little, noisy dog starts screaming immediately, and Felicity winces when she hears claws against the door.

"Look, it won't work out, Saphira," she says, mostly for her own amusement.  "He's a vigilante.  You're a dog.  And I just can't stand by and watch you get hurt again."  The Arrow seems to find that particularly amusing, but she doesn't dwell on it, dropping down next to him and starting to unlock her phone.  "I never thought I'd have to compete with my _dog_ for your attention."

"You always have my full attention," he replies quietly, his voice filled with so many things that Felicity doesn't _want_ to understand.  He releases a long sigh before asking her the million-dollar question.  "Who are you calling?"

"Barry Allen," she answers.  "He was my foster brother."  She doesn't think she can speak further about that—the wounds are too raw, and that sealed file isn't just in the police department.  It's in her head, too, and she does _not_ invite the past back into her life after so long away from it.  "But he's _also_ a scientific genius with a Ph.D. in Biochemistry."

"You two aren't related?" he asks carefully, and she thinks there's some confusion in his voice.  Which is weird, because she's maybe mentioned Barry to the Arrow once in passing, and it's such a minor detail that she expected him to forget.

"Not genetically," she admits as she presses the call button, "but I always say we're blood kin.  After all, the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb."  She rolls her eyes.  "Everyone always says that 'blood is thicker than water,' to demonstrate the importance of family, but it's just the shortened version saying that best friends have bonds stronger even than the familial ones."  She chuckles.  "I always thought that Barry was God's way of apologizing for my family."

"That's a pretty strong compliment for starting off a conversation," Barry's voice says from her phone, and she jumps, having forgotten that she was calling him.  "But flattery will get you nowhere," he continues casually.  "There's another old saying for you."  A pause before he finally asks, "Do I even _want_ to know who you're talking to at  three a.m.?"

"Let's say that, _hypothetically_ ," she starts, her eyes on the Arrow, and Barry groans because he _hates_ hypothetical situations, "I was sitting on my bed, discussing a case with the Arrow.  How pissed would you be?"  The corner of the vigilante's mouth curls up into a smile as Felicity throws him a conspiratorial wink.  Maybe she should have done this sooner; it's kind of fun to have help tormenting Barry.

She changes her mind about that, though, when he replies suggestively, "Is that what the kids call it these days—'discussing a case'?"  She chokes a little, her face flushing as he continues, "Because, while I'm glad for you, there are some things I don't need to know about.  Just make sure you pass on a message:  I may not be able to compete with him physically, but if he hurts you, I do have regular access to chloroform and some of the strongest, undiluted acids in the world."

"Good to know chivalry isn't dead, Watson," she replies after a long moment, her face still crimson, "but I actually meant _working on a case_.  And I'm not any help on this one.  But I _do_ have something for you to analyze in your mass spec or infrared spectroscopy machine.  Or whatever the hell it is.  I don't do organic chemistry, and I'm embarrassed to call you my friend because _you_ like it."

He sounds _way_ too excited about the whole thing when he says, "Anything to help the Arrow."  He quickly adds, "And you, too, Sherly.  But this is a big deal—I'm actually going to help the _Arrow_."  By the end, he's reaching epic fangirl proportions, and Felicity rolls her eyes.

"You get used to it," she admits with a shrug.  "Can you pick it up tomorrow—or, well, later today, I guess?  I can take it to you in Central City, I guess, but your hours are more flexible than mine."

Barry replies that he'd be perfectly willing to pick it up, but Felicity's mind focuses more on the gloved hand that falls on her knee to catch her attention.  It works like a charm for him if that's his goal; she can't exactly focus on anything else at the moment.  "Ask him how long it will take," he says quietly, and she can't even really respond until his hand leaves.  And then all she's capable of a small nod.

From the phone, Barry asks, "Wait, who was that speaking?  Was that him?  I thought you were kidding about him being there.  Felicity," he says firmly, tone abruptly changing, "it's three a.m., you live in the _Glades_ , for God's sake, and you don't have any neighbors.  I mean, I think he's awesome, but not when he's at your house at three a.m.  That's kind of inviting danger, don't you think?"

She rolls her eyes.  "Barry, if I thought I was in any danger, do you think I would even be working with him?"  She looks at the Arrow as she says, strongly believing every word, "Everything they say in the news may be true, Barry, but at the end of the day, he's still a hero.  I trust him, and that should be enough for you."  Not waiting for him to answer, she terminates the call.  To the Arrow, she says, holding up the syringe, "I'll give this to Barry later today.  He should have something for you then."

With another hand to her knee, he says quietly, "Thank you, Felicity.  Goodnight."  With that, he turns to leave, but she manages to catch his arm.  He turns on the spot, fixing her with a loaded look and his head tilted to the side.  He almost looks like his old self, but the slight uncertainty when he walks changes her mind about that.

"Absolutely not," she says flatly, and his expression turns to something that looks suspiciously like surprise.  He starts to say her name, but she holds a hand up.  "No, don't cut me off.  You can barely walk—I'm not letting you leave here."  Biting her lip, she adds, "I'm not going to spend the rest of this night worrying about you making it back to wherever you're headed."  She crosses her arms.  "It's almost two hours until sunrise.  Take the couch or the bed in the guest room and get some sleep.  I'll set my alarm early, and I'll wake you."

"Felicity," he tries again, but this time it's a growl of irritation and not a soft reminder that she was supposed to be talking about something else.  She supposes he means it to be intimidating, but she'd bet money that her seventeen-pound dog could take him down right now.  Well, if Saphira didn't love him so much, but that isn't the point.  He's weak, he was nearly killed with the drug that put Thea in jail, and she's not going to risk losing another person she cares about.  The Arrow is too important to her for that.  It may be an odd friendship, but it's still a friendship.  It's a difficult one, since she doesn't know his name or face—and because he doesn't know anything about her _other_ than her name and face—but she has to admit there's a... _spark_ of something between them.  Mutual understanding, she thinks, but that's not quite right, either.

Whatever it is, it's complicated.  But it's theirs.

She senses his defeat a moment before he does, taking a deep breath and sighing in a Felicity-Smoak-you-are-impossible way.  "Fine," he says finally, flinging open her bedroom door and stomping toward the couch.  He sits one end—the same one as always, the one farthest from the television set in the corner, giving her a I-hope-you're-happy-now look before crossing his arms and sitting there.  She shuts her door, determined to spend the next two hours asleep, too.

And, when her alarm goes off at five a.m. and she finds him there asleep, she allows herself a small smile of victory.

 

* * *

 

"It's a good deal," Laurel tries, jumping over the typical family drama.  "Three thousand hours community service is a lot, but it's better than going to jail.  And you'll work at CNRI, meaning I can drive you back home in the evenings, since your license is suspended for the time being."  She frowns.  "And I know Iris West, the prosecutor on this case.  She's good, Thea, and I have no doubt she's trying to take it easy on you."  She shakes her head.  "I don't know why, though—she's known to be pretty tough.  She doesn't usually offer plea deals."  Laurel turns those questioning eyes on Oliver, as if to ask, _Did you sleep with her, too?_

Feeling the need to explain, Oliver clears his throat before saying, "Miss West is the friend of a friend."  When he sees that still isn't flying, he turns to Thea.  "Look, Thea," he says flatly, "Felicity called in a lot of favors for this.  It's a good deal, and if you don't take it, I'm going to leave you to her mercy."  He lets an ominous tone enter his voice at the end, implying that Felicity isn't as benevolent about this as they'd expect.  After all, Felicity has yelled at the Arrow—not Oliver Queen—and he has to stay in character.

Laurel's head turns toward him, and he earns no sympathy from Thea's narrowed eyes, either.  "Tommy told me _you_ were the one with this idea," she says gently, that passive-aggressive tone n her voice again.  It's one Oliver knows well; it's the tone she used to say, "Really, nothing's wrong," every time he forgot a dating anniversary.

"Tommy lied," Oliver says flatly.  "Felicity asked him to lie for her because she doesn't want credit for this stroke of genius."  He holds his hands out.  "But we all know I'm not smart enough to come up with this.”

Thea hands him the black folder that was previously lying on the coffee table, and Oliver is surprised to find it has Thea's signature on it now.  "Here," she says flatly.  "I'll do it for your girlfriend."  Laurel's eyebrows rise into her hairline, but before Oliver can correct Thea, she continues, "After all, she's the only one who ever tells me when I screw up, and she went to the trouble to inform me of my mistakes.  Count me in."

"Felicity is a friend," Oliver says flatly, wishing for the umpteenth time that Thea would stop trying to push the issue.  He isn't interested in a relationship that serious with anyone; his head isn't always the best place to be, and he's doesn't think he can handle life as the Arrow _and_ a steady relationship with someone he'll have to spend the rest of his life—however long or short that may be—lying to.  Because he's dragged Felicity and Diggle into this, and he's not upending anyone else's life.

He doesn't understand why, but the statement sets Thea off.  She opens her mouth to start in, but he's saved by Diggle.  "Sir," he says, and only Oliver can hear the irony in that one word, "your technical advisor for the club is calling."  His tone is flat and completely devoid of emotion, but Oliver can tell by his word choice who the older man is talking about.

Because Oliver has only one technical advisor, and she's supposed to be giving him results on the sample of Vertigo he gave her.

He offers a fake smile before saying to the two women, "I'm sorry, but I have to take this."  He follows Diggle into the foyer, where he's handed the Arrow phone.  "Hello, Felicity," he says, breathing a sigh of relief.  It seems that Felicity has become only one of two people he can talk to without it being exhausting.

"Hey," she says, sounding a little distracted.  Then he hears her muffled voice say to someone else, "For the love of God, Barry, you can _not_ have the phone.  The last thing I need is you asking the man for his autograph.  I have to _work_ with him after this— _without_ apologizing for your behavior."  She turns her attention back to the phone.  "Sorry about that—Barry's fangirling like a twelve-year-old over _Twilight_."  In the background, Oliver has to suppress a chuckle as he hears Barry's indignant cry.

Oliver makes a mental note to look up both _Twilight_ and "fangirl" after this conversation is over, but he decides it would be out of character for him to ask.  " _Anyway_ , after a long-winded speech in the language of organic chemistry that means nothing to either you or I, Barry found out that the water used in the..."—she stops for a long moment, meaning that she probably didn't tell Barry what it was—" _sample_ comes from an old, ruined area of the Glades.  It's mostly residential, so your best bet for your guy is an old, abandoned mental facility—insert pun here—on Seventy-Seventh and Arbor.  That's where you'll find your guy."

"Thank you, Felicity," he says, surprising both himself and Diggle with the sincerity in his tone.  He wants to say so much more—"thank you for saving my sister," "thank you for being my friend," "thank you for calling me a hero when I'm nowhere near one"—but his vague statement will have to do for now.

He can practically _hear_ her go red over the phone, and he's seen that blush enough times that he knows exactly where it will be:  the expanse of skin under her eyes, and across the bridge of her nose.  "Well," she scrambles to say, talking too fast, "it wasn't _just_ me.  Barry found the composition and other biochemistry crap—I just matched it to a map.  So you should really be thanking him."

The mere idea of that puts a sour taste in Oliver's mouth.  He may realize that the two are just friends, but that doesn't mean that he has to _like_ the kid.  "Barry isn't the one I asked for help," he reminds her firmly.  And Barry Allen certainly isn't the one Oliver expects to keep his secrets.  "And he's not the person I trust.  Thank you, Felicity," he repeats, and this time is ton is insistent.

Oliver narrows his eyes as Digg shakes his head with a small smile, but his attention is directed elsewhere when Felicity replies quietly, "Well, you're welcome.  If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate."

"You'll be the first call I make," he assures her before hanging up, allowing Oliver to focus on Diggle's poorly contained smile.  "Something funny, Digg?" he asks.

His only response is an enigmatic, knowing smile.  "Nothing," he replies easily.  "Just thinking about how lucky we are to have Felicity."  Something tells Oliver that's not the whole story, but he doesn't have time to stop and think about it.  After all, he has to prepare.

The Count's farewell party is tonight, and, well, Oliver needs time to get the details _just_ right.


	20. Password Removal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Book finally leads to revelations—and more secrets. It wouldn't be any fun if you had all the answers at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/0HGRuWLoy4skERrgivwnHK). ("Liar Liar" isn't in the playlist because it isn't on Spotify. This seems to be a recurring issue, sorry.)
> 
> Ugh, this chapter makes me feel all the things. I didn't mean for it to be an angst fest, but somehow it turned out that way. :/ I hope you think it fits right, though. ;) Reviews and comments are awesome, but so are you all for sticking by me thus far. :)
> 
> And I’m sorry for being a ghost over the past two days. An essay for real life is calling. Funny—I can write ten pages of fic in a few hours, but it takes me a week to write a six-page essay. :P

Felicity frowns as she waits at Big Belly Burger for him, shaking her knee and drumming a rhythm with her fingers against the table top. She hasn't been this nervous since her freshman year of high school when Damon Wallace, the star lacrosse player of the college team, asked her out. And with how that turned out—a very nasty restraining order—how can she be blamed for being nervous?

Of course, that was a lifetime ago, and she doesn't think Oliver Queen is the kind to stalk her obsessively. She's always a little wary of the Arrow, though, and she has a feeling _that's_ going to be an interesting conversation. But it's also a conversation that causes her stomach to turn, so she ignores it for now, willing herself to focus on the present. Honestly, she shouldn't be so nervous about it.

She looks out the window, thinking of ways to get out of this mess. She could fake an illness, say something came up at work—even that Barry needed her in Central City for a while. But, well, she's always been a horrible liar, and each lie would end much the same way: with Oliver asking her what was so important that she called him up at three a.m. And something tells her that he won't buy, "I had a nightmare and needed to talk to someone," as an excuse.  Especially since she's led him on this impossible wild goose chase.

The moment of truth passes, though, as she meets eyes with Oliver through the window. She waves cheerily before realizing she looks like a total dork, but it brings a dazzlingly brilliant smile to Oliver's face before he waves back. Part of her fills with dread as she realizes how this conversation is going to go, but part of her is glad because now there's no escape from it, and at least she won't have to second guess herself about her decision.

Then her eyes meet Mr. Diggle's, always at Oliver's side, and she shares a glance with him. The two have only met a handful of times, but it changes things now that she knows he's working with the Arrow. Before, he was simply a stoic figure by her friend's side who rarely spoke, but now he's more than that. He's a colleague, a co-worker, a member of whatever cause it is that they're working toward. And she would like him to know that, but there's never a time or place.

Oliver slides into the booth across from her, and something is exchanged in glances between the two men. Then Mr. Diggle breaks into an all-knowing, enigmatic smile to end all enigmatic smiles before shaking his head and taking a seat at the other end of the small diner, at the bar. Oliver flashes her a smile that has probably made at _least_ one girl faint before saying simply, "Hi."

Felicity means to attempt something somewhat smooth, but of course that never works out for her. "I'm sorry," she blurts, clasping her hands and rubbing one thumb with the other on top of the table. "I didn't want to talk about this at work or home, and I'm too nervous to go to your house. Because that place intimidates me on a normal day, and with this level of the jitters, I just can't handle—"

His hand falls over hers, and she doesn't expect it to be so calloused and rough. She doesn't know how she didn't notice that before, and it makes her wonder before deciding it's absolutely _none_ of her business. And then she realizes the more important thing— _he_ reached out to comfort _her_. Usually it's the other way around, and she likes the idea that she can count on him, too. Because with one glance through her eyelashes at his face, and she knows that's _exactly_ what his expression is trying to communicate with her. "Felicity," he says gently, and how can he _possibly_ say so much with one word? People have been saying her name all her life, but _no one_ says it the way he does.

She takes a deep breath, and something about the soft smile on his face encourages her to keep going with this. Why did she have to be the honest friend who never lets him down? It's suddenly more responsibility than she can bear. "I have something to show you," she admits finally in a whisper. She watches as his eyebrows knit together in confusion before deciding it's best if she pulls out the book.

She hesitates to pull her hands from under his, but she eventually slides them loose. Surprisingly, he doesn't withdraw his own, but allows the other to join it, his hands clasped expectantly as his arms stretch across the length of the table. She reaches into her bag to pull out the little book, and she wonders how one, seemingly innocent, leather-bound journal could cause so much conflict in her life. She holds it out to him without a word, waiting to gauge his reaction to it.

With trepidation, he takes it, but it's almost as if he already knows what he'll find when he pulls it from her fingertips, drawing his arms back toward himself. She stares at her emerald green nails and wondered when that became her go-to color, but she likes showing her loyalty lies. It's her own inside joke, one that sometimes gives her strength to do what she thinks she can't. Just like now.

He examines it slowly, his shoulders tensing as he sees the names that have taken her so long to ferret out of the secretive little book. She still feels a little triumph as she sees them, thinking of how she conquered whoever-it-is with a _hairdryer_. But it fades when Oliver frowns, and he studies the names with confusion. Finally, he looks at her again, quirking an eyebrow as he asks, "Felicity, where did you get this?" His voice is measured and calm, but the firm set of his jaw betrays something that looks almost like anger. And she doesn't know what she's done to make him so upset—she hasn't even given him the _bad_ news yet.

She mirrors his confusion because his question certainly isn't the one she'd ask. Her first question would have been something along the lines of, "What _is_ this?" and the only reason she can think of for him _not_ to ask is because he already knows.

So she doesn't answer, instead returning his question with her own. "You know what this is?" she asks, leaning over the table and resting her elbows on it.

There's a quirk, a small second of hesitation before he says, "No." It's enough to make her question if he's lying to her, and she doesn't like this feeling. A few months ago, she never questioned anyone in her life because she trusted them all. But the deeper she gets into business with the Arrow, the more she's learned that the only certainty is not knowing who to trust. "What is it?" he asks this time, but it's clear his heart isn't in the question. Actually, it seems to be more of a test for her than a desire to seek information.

"I don't know," she admits with a shrug, and he relaxes ever so slightly. "God knows I've tried enough things that I probably _should_ know, but I don't." It's frustrating not to have all the answers; she's been deciphering this damn book for Walter for at _least_ a month, and still there are more things left to be asked. "What I _do_ know," she says finally, slowly, "is that twenty of the names in that book received visits from the Arrow, Oliver." His head snaps up from the book—a very intense reaction—and he questions her further with his eyes. "I think he might be using a book like this to mark his targets," she whispers as he places it on the table.

He doesn't say anything for an impossibly long moment before finally asking again, "Where did you get this, Felicity?" This time the edge is gone, and it's simply a question without a biased need for information.

She has to put her hands under the table so he doesn't see them shaking. The _last_ thing she wants is for Oliver to get involved with this, and she's recognizing the faint odor of bad idea material around this entire idea. She should have just gone with her first instinct and moved on to her backup plan. But she thought he deserved to know. Clearly, though, he already did, and now it's just creating more questions that she can't answer. "From—" she starts, but then she knows she can't look at him for this one. "From Walter." She swallows, and _God, this is her worst idea ever_.

She's surprised when a very rough hand tilts her chin upward, and she finds a very open, dark-eyed Oliver staring at her with an expression she can't quite decipher. It reminds her of all those nights working with the Arrow, the way he won't let her avoid his eyes just because she's about to say something difficult. "And where did _he_ get it?" Oliver asks evenly, and it's as though he knows that she hasn't told him the full story yet.

She tries to look away, but he still has her chin in his hand, and he refuses to let her go. She closes her eyes before she whispers, "From your mother." She just can't watch the expressions that play across his face, the inevitable look of betrayal that he'll finally decide upon. Theirs is a complicated web of lies and secrets, even though she can say there's very few people she trusts more than Oliver. But she's starting to think she's just destined to lie to _everyone_ for the rest of her life. And never has she felt more alone in the world—even after all the moments of being a pariah in her life.

He recoils as soon as it sets in, and he looks almost as though she's slapped him. And it _destroys_ her. The last thing she wants to do is cause Oliver pain, but she has to let some of these secrets and lies go before _they_ destroy her, too. "I'm sorry," she blurts, and she feels her words rushing together and hears her voice rise about two octaves like it does when she's about to cry. But she will _not_ cry, damn it. "I don't know anything about why she had it, but that's what Walter told me. If he knew anything else, he didn't tell _me_ about it." She takes a deep breath, trying not to focus on the expression on Oliver's face. "But Walter warned me to be careful about this because he sent his head of security to investigate."

Oliver's eyebrows pull together and he frowns. "Didn't Walter's head of security die in a car accident?" he asks slowly, and she realizes he's coming to the same conclusions that Walter did.

"Yeah," is all Felicity can manage, but then her voice wavers as she realizes how much trouble she's really put herself in. She is an absolute idiot for letting this happen—she should have turned Walter down the very first time they met. Her voice barely audible, she adds, "Walter didn't think it was an accident, and now..." She doesn't finish the thought because she doesn't have to.

Oliver's eyes go wide while hers land on the book. That damn book has caused too much damage already, and this was a mistake. She should have followed her first instinct and asked someone who is more equipped to help her with something like this. Without a shred of hesitation, she grabs it, putting it back in her bag. "I showed you," she starts slowly, "because I figured it out and I can't hide these secrets anymore, Oliver. And because you're my friend. I care about you, and I can't hide this from you. But I know you'll start digging if you have this book in your hands. So I'm taking it back." She hesitates, her voice soft and slow. "I know someone," she admits, "who can help with this." She rises from her seat before leaving. It may anger him, he might never forgive him for this, but it's a small price to pay for saving his life.

"Felicity," he growls this time, and she feels like she knows that tone. It evokes some sort of memory in her, but she can't understand why. He rises with her, his hand reaching for her elbow. She turns back to him, and she gets lost in his eyes for a moment. He studies her carefully before motioning back to their table. "Please." He doesn't say anything else, just stands there and stares her down. And she's a sucker, so of course she slides right back into place. She lets out a frustrated groan before putting her head down in her hands. She regrets telling him, but if she didn't, she knows she'd regret that, too.

His hands cover hers, and he gently pries them from her forehead. She can't do much more than stare at him as he takes both of her hands, and he offers her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and she's never felt more affection for him than in this moment. Because, this time, when he's smiling, it's not because he thinks he has to put on a face for the rest of the world, but because he's trying to comfort her. "Thank you," he says quietly, and she knows any anger he has isn't aimed at her. He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't really have to. They both understand that he appreciates her telling him, that he knows just how damn difficult it was for her to do so, that he appreciates her trying to save him from his own curiosity.

He doesn't leave her an opportunity to respond before squeezing her hands, releasing them, and rising from the booth. He doesn't wait for Mr. Diggle, doesn't look back. But he does take a brief second to drop a hand on her shoulder. Felicity takes a moment to herself before rising, and her bag dumps half its contents when she drops it, mostly because of frayed nerves. She gathers up most of her things, and she turns to find the brown book that's caused so much trouble held out to her. She rises as she takes it, and she finds John Diggle smiling at her. "You dropped this," he offers quietly, and Felicity _knows_ he must understand what it is—could have ran out with it and given it to Oliver—but he instead gives it back to her.

"I see why he chose you," she blurts, then colors as she realizes what she's said. She shakes her head. "Never mind," she immediately corrects. She takes the book from his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Diggle." She hurries to stuff the book down in her bag, then turns to scurry out of this building before she screws one more thing up. After all, she thinks twice is enough for one day.

He stops her with one look, and she swears the man _must_ have the secrets of the universe hidden away in that brain. Because that's the way he looks at everyone—like he understands them in a single instant. "Why who chose me?" he asks, but they both know he really doesn't have to ask.

"Our friend," she clarifies, then realizes that's just not good enough. "Our friend who's into archery." He doesn't seem to be surprised that she's figured it out because he only smiles.

"I can see why he chose you, too," is all he says, again with that knowing expression, and Felicity isn't smart enough to figure _that_ one out. Finally, with a "Have a good day, Miss Smoak," he follows Oliver out the door.

 

* * *

 

John Diggle has seen his share of frightening things, but he thinks that Oliver in one of his self-loathing moods is one of the scariest things he's ever seen. Oliver doesn't yell, he doesn't take his anger out on anyone other than himself. And, all the while, he appears and acts perfectly calm, except for the tension in his jaw. And, in Diggle's experience, it's the people who can stay perfectly calm are the ones who are the most terrifying, the ones capable of the worst crimes.

They enter their base of operations, and he's almost surprised when Oliver walks past the table that houses his computer and flips it. It's almost like he doesn't focus on it; one hand darts out, catches the table by the edge, and tilts the top backward. There's a satisfying crash as everything litters to the floor, and it's only then that Oliver takes a deep breath, facing away from his partner for a long moment. Diggle winces as he notices the corner of Oliver's laptop lying amid the rubble, knowing that it's probably damaged beyond repair.

When he turns back, the expression on his face is murderous, and Digg knows it's aimed at nobody but Oliver himself. "You were right," he says finally, his voice low enough to almost reach his deep Arrow tones. "I shouldn't have involved Felicity in this." He runs a hand over his face. "She's going to get herself killed if she keeps digging into things she should leave alone."

"You really think that she wouldn't have eventually contacted you with the book anyway?" Diggle responds, hoping that Oliver will understand the question. "This isn't on you, man. Walter gave her the book, not you. And she tore into it because that's what she does." He wonders for a moment when he became Felicity's advocate. At first, he thought she was just another pretty face Oliver planned to use, but now he knows better. He knows Oliver better, and he's beginning to understand this mysterious Felicity Smoak.

Before Oliver can respond, Diggle, knowing it's best to get it out of the way, continues, "And that's not the worst of it." He crosses his arms as Oliver throws him that questioning glance. "She knows I work for the Arrow. I don't know how she figured it out, but she told me as much today."

Oliver turns away, again running that hand over his face. He doesn't say anything for a very long moment, but Diggle knows what thoughts are flying around in his head. He's blaming himself for involving her, berating himself for allowing himself to get too close, throwing a barrage of words around because he's a human being who couldn't resist the draw of companionship.

Oliver may not see it yet, but Diggle does. He sees it every time Oliver pulls that hood over his head, speaks to his family, draws that bow back. There's something different about Oliver now that Felicity Smoak is in his life. By simply agreeing to help him with a laptop all those months ago, she rocked the man's entire world. When he started this crusade, Diggle thought that Oliver Queen was a walking time bomb, just a few casualties away from falling into a homicidal spiral. But he likes this version of Oliver he sees now. More importantly, Diggle thinks Oliver likes _himself_ better now that Felicity Smoak has firmly cemented her presence in his life.

Diggle can't help the small smile that graces his face, despite the grave nature of things today. He can't help but wonder when Oliver will finally realize the depth of his feelings for her. Because if there's one thing Diggle knows, it's that women like Felicity Smoak don't come around all that often, and, even when they do, they don't wait around forever.

Oliver's Arrow phone rings, and he doesn't even look at the caller ID before demanding, " _What?_ " into the speaker. Diggle thinks the possibility of Felicity in danger has rattled the billionaire more that he's probably admitting to himself. Because Diggle knows, just as Oliver does, that if she has a copy of the list and a connection to Walter, it's simply a matter of _when_ she finds herself into more than she can handle.

Oliver is silent for a very long moment, but Diggle can already tell by the lack of tension in his features that it's Felicity. "I didn't mean to yell," he says quietly, then turns to Digg. The vigilante throws Diggle a questioning expression, but it only makes the older man chuckle. He never thought he'd describe Oliver Queen as "gentle," but there doesn't seem to be a better word when he's with Felicity.

Another long pause before, "I'll be there." It isn't a simple statement. It's a promise, a vow that doesn't end after whatever favor she's called in this time. It's a commitment with no expiration date.

Unsurprisingly, the moment Oliver terminates the call, he grabs the suit. Diggle shakes his head again before saying, "Tell Felicity I said hello."

Oliver studies him for a moment. "I didn't say it was Felicity," he says slowly, his eyebrows narrowed together in confusion. And Diggle finds it incredibly amusing that the _only_ person who doesn't see it is Felicity.

Diggle only shakes his head. "You didn't have to, man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> 01\. "Liar Liar" - Christina Grimmie  
> 02\. "Disenchanted" - My Chemical Romance  
> 03\. "Snow White Queen" - Evanescence  
> 04\. "No Boundaries" - Adam Lambert  
> 05\. "The Only Hope for Me is You" - My Chemical Romance  
> 06\. "Bound to You" - Christina Aguilera


	21. Drive Cloning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity confronts the Arrow about the Book, and he answers with a confrontation of his own. His confrontation is decidedly more fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/1n8XxyOoeL1ytYMs0fW3FF). ("Sparks Fly" and "The One That Got Away" are missing because they aren't on Spotify.)
> 
> I am a horrible, mean-spirited person, and I make it worse because I'm not sorry for what I did to you all here. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me for toying with you. In my defense, I did mean to follow through, but then I decided against it for various reasons. ;) Hope you enjoy it anyway, but, if not, feel free to pelt me with rotten tomatoes. :P I deserve them all.
> 
> **Also,** if your love for AU is strong and you want to give some new ones a go, ihatepeas and I are doing a collaboration of eight AUs just for fun, ranging through all sorts of things. It's going to be called **"A Universe of Endless Possibilities,"** and it should be up later this morning. :D

Felicity thinks she might be about to wear a hole in her floor. Today has done nothing for her nerves; first that encounter with Oliver, and now this mess. She finally let the cat out of the bag and told Diggle that she knew he was the Not-Vigilante, and she's not looking forward to meeting the Arrow. Because Felicity knows that loyalty like that is nearly impossible, and Mr. Diggle is not a man to keep secrets from the people who depend upon him.

She turns from a line in her path to run into the Arrow, and he steadies her by the shoulders. She lets out a muffled shriek of surprise. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly, before brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His eyes are intense, as always, and she really needs to look away because of the way they taunt her.

"I could ask you the same question," she retorts when she's finally able to look at him again. "The last time we met, you had an almost-lethal dose of Vertigo in your system. You could barely walk a straight line." She bites her lip before she adds hesitantly, "And then you left without waking me. I wasn't sure if you were all right." Something about the admission makes her feel like she's admitting something much more personal, so she quickly turns her head away.

His hand lands on her shoulder, causing her to focus attention on him again. "I didn't want to wake you," he admits, and even under the synthesizer, his voice is drastically different. Some new emotion has entered his tone, and Felicity decides it's not one important enough to decipher. "I cause you too many sleepless nights as it is." She has to look away at that one because, with that tone, it's far too much for her to handle. She isn't surprised when he tilts her chin back toward him. "And you could have called me, Felicity." It isn't an accusation or a judgment, but an invitation. She understands the words he can't seem to say: _You can call me at any time for any reason because I'll always answer_. And, truth be told, she's very glad he didn't say it. Some things are given new life when spoken aloud, and she's not sure she's ready to acknowledge this particular train of thought.

"I didn't want to come off as some nagging, overly-concerned mother hen," she decides to confess, and she thinks it's odd that her voice is an octave higher than normal. "It's not like you answer to me—I'm not important enough for that." He frowns and opens his mouth to argue, but she stops him with a finger over his mouth. "And, for the record," she continues, "I _like_ spending my nights with you." It's only after the corner of his mouth twitches that she realizes how it sounds, and she groans. "Ugh, do _not_ answer that last part."

His hand splays across her cheek, barely cupping it. Indecision plays across his features before he finally admits, "You're important to me." Each word is weighted with something more, and, whatever it is, it takes Felicity's breath away for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth lifts, and he adds, "And I like spending my nights with you, too." She bites her lip again, and he coaxes it out from between her teeth with his thumb immediately. "I don't want you to hesitate to call me, Felicity. For any reason." Again, his eyes are far too intense, and this time she can't even turn her head to escape from those piercing, dark eyes.

They stand like that for a long time, and Felicity forgets the world for a moment. Somehow they're able to lock and communicate like this, and she feels that old, familiar draw toward him—that lure that's been there since they first met. Before, she was hesitant because he was the Arrow and the terror of Starling City, but now she knows better. He's a good, decent man when he's under that hood, and she freely admits that she was wrong. But since she decided that, the draw and sensation is getting harder to ignore, harder to think of reasons why she should ignore it and break the silence.

This time, when he tilts her head up, it's with a single finger, this time giving her the opportunity to break loose. Even as he touches her, her nerves flutter because she knows this is different—and she knows why, and can hardly believe it herself. The distance between them can be measured in centimeters, and she thinks they need to stop talking like this before something dangerous happens. The Arrow must have come to the same conclusion, but, since he seems to invite danger with open arms, he probably thinks it's worth the risk. "Do you understand?" he murmurs slowly, and she's pretty sure she can feel his breath on her face.

Somehow, she manages a very breathy, "Yes." But she isn't sure how much she's saying yes to, and a sudden burst of inhibition slams on the brakes with force. There are too many questions she can't answer, and the _last_ thing she wants is to complicate things further with the Arrow. Things are progressing too far, too fast, and the nagging spiteful part of her brain reminds her that she doesn't even know who he is. But the other part thinks it doesn't matter.

"Did your associate tell you?" she blurts too loudly in the quiet space, making them both jump apart. He frowns deeper than she's ever seen him, and she can't help but agree with that expression. She's both relieved and disappointed by the way the moment passes, putting a hand to her forehead. "Because I told him, and I figured he'd tell you, and you'd come here tonight in your..." She hesitates for a moment, making awkward hand motions that make her blush when she realizes that she's actually doing that. "...Your vengeful, Arrow-y, you-have-failed-this-city glory."

"You surprised me the last time," he admits with a smile turning his mouth up, and Felicity thinks it might almost be an apology. "I've had time to think about this." He hesitates before saying, "I never wanted you so deeply involved in this, Felicity, but now I think I should have started this a different way." So quietly she can barely hear him, he adds, "I never wanted you to know about my... connections."

"Well, since we're going with the confession theme tonight," she replies with an airy laugh that's an octave too high, "I think it's about time that I admit I don't regret a moment of this." His eyes snap to her, and she bites her lip as she's dragged into those dark eyes again. "No matter what happens, I'm glad I agreed to help you. I feel like I'm making a difference now, instead of a bored IT girl with no hope of being promoted in an all-boys club. I thought I was insane for doing this, but now I can't imagine a life where I _don't_ help the Arrow save this city."

Something passes between them, and Felicity could probably name it, but chooses not to. Suddenly he's too close, she does _not_ think he should keep staring at her mouth like that. She turns immediately on her heel, facing the other way. They've already had one close call tonight, and she doesn't think she can resist another occurrence of _almost_. The next time he looks at her like that, holds her chin like that, asks her if she understands, she knows she's not going to be able to turn away.

Again, her brain decides to blurt something to ease the tension. "I need a favor," she admits, swallowing hard. She picks up her copy of the book and holds it out for him to examine. "I know this is a copy of the same book you use to fight crime. I received this one from Walter Steele after he found it." She pulls it back before he can wrap his gloved fingers around it. "I want you to help me find him." He tilts his head in confusion, and she adds, "He was nice to me, and I want to help."

He nods. "It's a small favor," he replies, "compared to all the ones you've done for me." She thinks he might be getting _too_ amicable. "Diggle told me about the book," the Arrow says then, unzipping his jacket and rummaging through a pocket or two. He's a black shirt, this time with a V-neck. "I thought you might like to compare." He pulls out a similar book, this one battered and beaten, and offers it to her.

She examines them closely, and the same hand has penned both sets of names. His is missing a few pages, but it's definitely the same book. "What did you do, use it for target practice?" she asks dryly, smiling. "You're short a few names, and I'm pretty sure this is water damage."

He bypasses her question altogether when he responds, "I received this book from a man whom I thought compiled the list." She notes the use of the word "whom," an odd formality that is often forgotten in today's English; it points to something in his upbringing, but she's not qutie sure what. And clearly he trusts her just fine, but there are some secrets he's simply not ready to let go of. Felicity understands, though, because she's still holding onto some of her own. "But when I fought the Dark Archer, he said that he was the one who wrote these books." He holds his hand out, and she returns his copy. "I need to know where you got your copy, Felicity." It's clear that it's a demand, but his voice is still soft and careful.

"It's been around the world," she admits, "but it originally came from Moira Queen." She bites her lip. "I know I said the Queen family is off-limits, but maybe it's time to rethink that." She hesitates before saying carefully, "The last thing I want to do is pry into the Queens' personal lives—because God knows they've been through enough. But maybe you could get Mr. Diggle to look into this? Because Walter has been kidnapped, and now she's starting to look kind of fishy. I think it's time we bring her into this."

He nods once, but doesn't say anything. She doesn't like him quiet like this; there's nothing amicable about this silence. "I can't bare you being mad at me, too," she blurts, and he turns to look at her. "Things have already been rocky with Oliver since I told him about the book—I don't want this to screw us up now." She puts a hand to her forehead. "I should have burned the damn thing when I had the chance," she mutters.

"I'm glad you didn't," he replies quietly. They're almost normal distance between each other again, instead of seeming to maintain careful distance around one another. "This reminds me why I can trust you, Felicity. I depend on your honesty." It's accompanied by another shoulder touch, this time more tense in light of earlier events.

After all, she's pretty sure he was going to kiss her, which is proof her ego is in serious need of deflating.

Another nervous silence passes between them, and Felicity finally says what's on her mind. "I wanted you to hear it from me," she starts, watching him tense as he prepares for the worst, "but I'm going down tomorrow to try to break the encryption on Lance's phone. The one you gave him." He doesn't say anything, so she feels free to babble in the empty space. "I'm obviously not going to rat anything out, but it's a stipulation that came with Thea Queen's papers. I had to agree to help before he would sign. I didn't want to put you in an awkward position or anything, but I didn't exactly have a choice." She groans. "That has to be the biggest clichéd line ever. I might as well have said, 'It all happened so fast,' or something else cheesy like that. But then again, I think I do cheesy pretty well. I mean—"

"Felicity," he says gently, and she's almost relieved that he decides to get her out of her babbling misery. He puts his hand on her shoulder again. "I understand. And I trust you to keep my secrets." Something about the line reminds her of what Oliver said before: _I_ _tell my secrets to someone much more deserving of my trust_. It's silly, but part of her keeps wanting to compare them because they've equally impacted her life in the past few months, in very different ways. "And Thea Queen is lucky to have you to look out for her." With a smile, he adds, "Goodnight, Felicity." And with that, she's left watching him leave yet again.

It just serves to remind her why she can't let herself get any closer—he always leaves.

 

* * *

 

Detective Quentin Lance has prepared for a lot of things this morning, but the last thing he expected was to see Felicity Smoak sitting at his desk, purple peacoat draped over the back of one of the guest chairs. He recognizes that coat and that ponytail anywhere, so he immediately turns in his tracks to refill his coffee cup and pick up another for her. He's fairly certain that he doesn't yet have enough caffeine in his system to carry on a conversation with her.

When he decides he can't stall any longer, he walks back to his desk. "Good morning, Detective," she greets him cheerily, and he thinks he might hate how much of a morning person she is. "I hope you didn't mind me sitting here—Detective Hilton told me it was okay. Didn't want you to think I was taking liberties or anything."

"It's fine," he assures her, before she can _really_ get started rambling. Because he wasn't prepared for her particular brand of sunshine, he's a little hesitant to let her keep babbling. That level of happy should be reserved for musicals and Disney movies. Life in Starling City is neither. "What can I do for you today, Miss Smoak?"

She waves a hand, that fuchsia mouth turned up into a smile. "It's more what I can do for you, Detective," she corrects. "I told you I'd be pleased to help you with that encrypted phone, and I'm fully prepared to do so today." She waves a hand. "I can't usually get vacation time so quickly, but my boss pulled a few strings when I said I was helping the boys in blue." Lance interprets this to mean that _Queen_ pulled a few strings because she asked him to. Lance isn't a fool, and it's his experience that a girl that pretty knows how to use it to her advantage. And Queen, well, he's always been a sucker for a short skirt and a pretty smile—both of which seem to sum up Felicity Smoak nicely, judging by the dress she's wearing today.

He frowns because he'd hoped for advanced warning, but he motions her to follow him with a hand after picking up the Hood file and the phone from his desk. "This way," he almost growls. "I'll lead you down to IT." He frowns because it's empty today, as the regular tech has the day off, too. Which means Lance will be stuck with her while she stares at computer screens for hours on end. He might actually do a cartwheel in a fit of joy.

He leads her into the almost-closet that serves as their IT department, and she groans as she looks at their computer systems. "No offense, Detective," she starts, and he knows the following is going to be highly offensive, "but your technology is a few years behind." She holds up a cord between two fingers, frowning at it. "And I don't think I've seen any of these since I was in high school." She lets it drop, flashing emerald-painted fingernails, and Lance wonders if she's taunting him by reminding him of her connection with the Hood that he can't prove. "This hurts me in my soul."

"It's what we've got, Miss Smoak," he states flatly, opening the evidence seal on the encrypted phone that the Hood sent him and tossing it on the table. "And, for today, it's what you'll have to use, because this phone isn't leaving this room." He drops into a chair at the desk next to the one he's alloted for her. "And neither am I, apparently."

The next few hours are filled with wonderful silence, and Lance studies the information for what must be the hundredth time since the case landed on his desk. Everything always manages to lead back to Oliver Queen, one way or another. Queen was the first one to report the Hood. One of his cases revolved around Unidac Industries, and Queen was the one who picked up the duffle with the hood itself. Then the Hood _conveniently_ appears across town while Queen is on house arrest, but no one recorded him using the bow that night. Felicity Smoak—a friend of Queen's—is working with the Hood, something Lance knows but can't prove. John Diggle—Queen's bodyguard and driver—was at Blackhawk the night the Hood struck, and then the Hood turned around and killed the man who held Diggle hostage.

Only an idiot would think that Queen had nothing to do with this. Lance wasn't thinking things through when he accused the billionaire of murder because Oliver Queen isn't the kind to get his hands dirty. No doubt he's hiring this guy to hunt down the city's elite—maybe to weed out the competition for his family's enterprises—and he's subtle enough to get around it. Lance screwed up his first shot, and so now Oliver Queen is completely off-limits, as per instructions from his superiors. Now, Lance will have to find a way to prove he's guilty to his fellow officers before the man goes up against a jury of his peers.

"Detective," Felicity calls clearly, and he almost jumps because he's forgotten she's there, "I think I have something for you." She's squinting at the screen, as if trying to make sense of what she's seeing. On the workspace of the desk, the phone lays in a disassembled heap, contents littered around as though in some sort of order despite the chaos of it all.

"It better not be that you're missing a screw now," he grumbles under his breath before examining the screen. It's some sort of blueprint for a design he's never seen before, and the website seems to be the US Patent Office. "What the hell is this?" he asks her, not making sense of the design.

She holds up a square component that looks almost identical to the one on the screen. "It's this piece right here," she answers. "It's a specialized microchip. It does a lot of important things to keep this smartphone running." She turns to him, crossing her arms. "What version of this conversation do you want to have? I can do technical or simple."

Lance knows a lot about a lot of things, but computers are _not_ his forte. But he's smart enough to know that about himself, and he's not embarrassed by it. "Talk to me like I'm a third-grader, please," is his dry response.

She smiles wryly. "Short version it is," she answers tactfully. "This is the source of all your problems because it's responsible for the encryption on this line." She frowns. "I couldn't do anything with it, so I pulled the phone apart so that I could see what hardware was installed in this. It's a custom phone—meaning that this isn't usually in your typical smartphone. I'm not familiar with it, but there's a patent number on it, so I looked it up." She points to the screen. "I think you're going to be getting a call soon, asking how you got this patent number." Lance balks because that's never a good start to any information. "This is high-grade, just-a-few-steps-below-classified technology. It says clearly on the website that it's not used in tech to be purchased by the public." She looks at him, waiting for him to respond.

"So," he starts slowly, "you're telling me that the Hood somehow has gotten his hands on military tech? How would he manage that?"

Her frown deepens. "This chip is manufactured by Unidac Industries," she says slowly. "Apparently, the reason why it was such a hot grab at the end of last year was because they have some military and defense contracts with their technology. I don't know if you're aware, but Unidac was acquired by Queen Consolidated during the auction." Lance frowns, because it's yet another connection to Oliver Queen, and he has to remind himself that Queen is _off-limits_. Felicity turns toward him. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but there was a shipment of chips stolen in transit." Lance shoots her a suspicious look, and she colors a little. "The only reason I know about it is because it's in your police database—which I have access to from here. They were never recovered—which is no surprise because they're untraceable with today's technology—and the thieves were never caught." She sighs. "I think we're at a dead end, Detective."

Lance frowns. He knows what has to be done with it, but he doesn't want Felicity Smoak—possible accomplice to the Arrow—to be the one in charge of bugging it. He'll use one of the other techs to do that. "So it appears," he says slowly. He holds out his hand for her to shake. "Thank you for your help, though, Miss Smoak. Every little bit helps."

She shakes hands with him, smiling. "Anytime, Detective," she says easily, and he frowns because he knows it's utter crap. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more to help you catch this guy." She actually sounds genuine this time, and he thinks she's given him quite a lot for someone who's supposed to be helping the Hood. After all, his _own_ techs couldn't pull this information up, and he thinks that maybe, Felicity Smoak isn't just going through the motions. It makes him waver for a moment, but he remembers seeing her with the Arrow that night outside the burning club, and it bolsters his resolve. No, Felicity Smoak is involved, and, if Lance can't catch Queen, he _will_ get the girl—even if only to get Queen to confess, and Lance has no doubt it would be the turning point for him.

He asks her to put the phone back together before pondering possibilities of this new information. His techs have already said that they could still bug it, but he didn't want to go that route on the phone. After all, he knows the dangers of playing with someone else's technology, and, if it _does_ lead him to the Hood, Lance also knows that the criminal isn't afraid to kill if he thinks it necessary. There are so many different things that could potentially be harmful, and Lance knows how each of them could go wrong. But there's nothing else he can think of to catch this son of a bitch. So he's going to go down and have the phone bugged tonight before returning it to its rightful owner.

He'll just ask Laurel not to contact the Hood again, and pray she heeds his advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> 01\. "No Heroes Allowed" - Mayday Parade  
> 02\. "Whataya Want from Me" - Adam Lambert  
> 03\. "Resurrect the Sun" - Black Veil Brides  
> 04\. "Sparks Fly" - Taylor Swift  
> 05\. "Under Pressure" - My Chemical Romance and The Used  
> 06\. "The One that Got Away" - Natasha Bedingfield  
> 07\. "Don't Leave Me Behind" - We Are the Fallen


	22. Hard Drive Replacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver shows up with the broken laptop, and Felicity somehow manages not to kill him for destroying it. Somehow it ends with a dinner date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/2UdRfyygRorZftf7TH7QCI).
> 
> Okay, so I'm surprised I was able to post this up early. I didn't think about how insane my Thursdays are now that I'm back in classes, so it's probably going to be more like 5:00PM US Central Time when it goes up from now on. I can't post from the university, so sorry, guys. :/ Anyway, be aware of the change in posting schedule. Reviews/comments are awesome, but thanks for reading anyway. :)

Felicity frowns when her doorbell rings, sighing.  She's just made her way into the apartment for the night, and all she wants to do is enjoy a night in.  Frustrated, she opens the door to her spare bedroom to let Saphira out, and the little dog immediately bypasses her for the front door.  Rolling her eyes, Felicity follows, now knowing who her visitor is.

She opens the door, not at all surprised to see Oliver standing there.  She is, however, surprised to see the laptop under his arm.  She presumes it's the one she put together for him, but it's hard to tell; the casing is scratched and beaten, with several nice-sized dents and a casing that won't meet together the way it's supposed to.

She winces as she waves him in.  "Sorry to bother you at home," he says before she can speak, "but I have some emergency computer problems."  She's careful to look at his body language, to see if he's still upset from their last conversation, but he seems to be smiling.  He reaches down to pet Saphira with his free hand, as if the behavior is as easy as breathing.

"Do you want to tell me what happened to my baby?" she asks, and he frowns as he passes her the laptop, and it makes her want to cry.  She did _not_ slave for that long on his laptop so that he could destroy it.  But then she thinks that maybe material possessions don't mean as much to Oliver as they mean to most people; after all, when you have the world at the tips of your fingers, you're not as worried about the state of your possessions.

He looks repentant about it, which is why she forgives him.  "I accidentally knocked over the table it was on," is his reply.  She plops down on her sofa, taking up two of the three couch cushions, and he sits at her feet.  "It won't turn on now, and I wondered if you could fix it up for me again?  If you could get it running temporarily, I could bring it back for the cosmetic repairs later."

She frowns at it.  "I'm an IT nerd, not a miracle worker, Oliver," she warns him, "but I can give it a shot."  She's not comfortable with the state of the machine, but she might be able to do something with it if fortune is with her.  But the odds aren't good, and it would be better if she had some food in her.  "But it will cost you this time because you destroyed a beautiful piece of technological genius."

He doesn't even flinch, only flashing that ridiculously charming smile in her direction.  "Name your price," he says easily.  He seems completely unperturbed by the idea of paying for it, and she wonders how many times someone has bargained with him like this.  Either way, he seems very willing to meet any demands.

"Dinner," she says flatly, and his eyes widen in surprise at about the same time that she realizes how that could be construed.  But, a part of her notes, it doesn't seem to cross him as an _unpleasant_ surprise; she'd always expected him to be disgusted by the whole idea.  She flushes before waving her arms frantically as she explains, "No!  Not like that.  I don't mean like a _date_ or anything—I'm not deluded enough to think that you'd want to go on a date with _me_."  The look on his face does make her wonder, though.  "I just meant that I'm hungry, and—surprise, surprise—I have no food in this place again.  And I can't exactly afford to pay for any parts you might need, so you're on your own for those, too."  She crosses her arms.  "Do you think you can live with that?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," Oliver says easily, and Felicity can't believe how quickly he replies. Clearly the man has a lot to learn about bargaining. He rises from the couch as he asks, "Are there any special requests?"

She frowns, thinking about it, trying to decide. Finally, she decides she's horribly curious to find out what he'll come up with on his own. With a mischievous smile, she replies, "Surprise me." He seems a little hesitant about that, so she adds, "Nothing with olives, anchovies, or mushrooms, or anything hotter than jalapeños—and it has to be kosher." She holds up her index finger. "And, if nothing else, no nuts of any kind. Not unless you want this night to end with an epi pen and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  Because if your mouth is ever on mine, I want to be conscious for it."  Oliver smiles so wide he flashes teeth, and she tries to ignore the fact she's turning crimson.  He opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off. "No, don't even attempt to answer that.  Just leave before I embarrass myself again, please."  He turns to leave, and she calls behind him, "And bring back tasty excellence!"  It earns her a chuckle, so she's immediately glad she does it.

The apartment feels a little quieter without him in it, but she tries to focus on the laptop sitting in her lap.  In need of a larger workspace, she carries to the bar at her kitchen, taking her computer tool kit with her before situating herself on a stool.  She tries to start it up, and she winces as soon as she realizes the hard drive has been damaged in the fall. She manages to pull it out of the rubble, and, knowing she probably can't salvage it, she grabs another one to replace it from her parts box. Interestingly enough, it's the same storage capacity, so she doesn't think he'll notice the difference. She promptly deposits the other one in the trash before rummaging through the file cabinets in her bedroom for the recovery discs she was smart enough to burn for his machine and save, in the event he needed them.

When he finally returns, he finds her waiting for his computer to restore to the default. "Hey," she says, not bothering to turn; she can tell by Saphira's reaction who it is. "I think I'll get you up and running temporarily." This time, she does turn because the scent starting to waft her way is _heavenly_. "  But you owe me another hard drive—yours was trashed."

He sets a plastic bag and two takeout boxes on the bar careful to keep them away from the computer, and Felicity thinks for the first time that their evenings like this—this one, and the one with a movie and fast food—are surprisingly relaxing and domestic. It's ridiculous, though; they shouldn't be acting like this after only a few months of friendship. In fact, if anyone had told her she'd one day feel comfortable with Oliver Queen, she would have laughed. But now, it's just another natural thing in her life.

She can't read the print in permanent marker on the styrofoam box before he opens it, but she sees what looks like an Italian pasta that has been fixed by a master chef. "Holy cheese fries, Oliver," she blurts. Then she goes onto say, "I hope you didn't pay a small fortune for this meal—that looks pretty five-star-ish."

He chuckles. "Tommy and I have been interviewing chefs for the club," he explains. "He's doing some of the preliminary interviews tonight, so I dropped by to pick up a sample." He offers her another tentative smile. "So if it's terrible, it's really Tommy's fault."

She laughs at that. "Well, Merlyn seems like a good enough person to blame," she agrees easily, before looking back at the computer screen. "Awesome," she mutters sarcastically. She explains louder, "I think this is going to take a while—system restores are the worst." She waves a hand. "Give me a set of code to write any day—it's better than this." She rises from the barstool to get a set of plastic utensils for both of them, and she holds out a fork to Oliver. "I'm breaking out the good silverware for this—I hope you're not intimidated."

He chuckles. "I'm not sure what to do with a setting this impressive," he teases hesitantly, as if he's forgotten how to do it, "but I think I can manage somehow."  Felicity can feel her eyebrows rise and her mouth gape a moment at the rare instance of genuine happiness and normalcy from Oliver, and her mouth finally settles into a smile as the surprise wears off.

She tries to bite down on the smile because he seems a little tentative.  She walks around to the other side of the bar again, sitting down a few inches from the computer, and taking the to-go plate and throwing her fork into it with vigor.  She expects Oliver to do the same—perhaps with a little less enthusiasm—but he simply watches her.  Felicity tries to ignore the self-conscious feeling crawling up her spine, but she can’t control the groan that leaves her when she manages to take a bite of the pasta.  To her surprise, it tastes even better than it smells—and she didn't think that was possible.

His eyes widen as he tries to hold back a smile, and Felicity bites her lip as she feels the heat of a blush cover her face.  “I no longer care how much you paid for this,” she proclaims.  “It’s amazing.  Seriously, all pasta hopes that it grows up to be _this_.”  She motions with her fork on the last word, pointing toward the meal.  “You know what?  Scratch that.  This is practically food porn—I’m not sure that this can even be eaten in public.”  This time he can’t hide his smile, and she thinks she can feel a flush on the back of her neck now.  “My point is, if you two don’t hire this guy for your club, you’re both insane.”

“Good to know,” he says with a soft smile, but it’s become one of her favorites over the past few months, mainly because it’s such a rare sight.  Finally, he takes a bite, and he makes a short noise of contentment before adding, “You’re right—this is good.  I think we might have the winner right here.”  He frowns.  “Though Italian isn’t exactly the kind of food you’d expect at a bar.”

She has to give him that one.  “True,” she admits, “but this just isn’t the type of opportunity you’d pass up.”  She’s a little embarrassed about how fast she’s going through the plate—a significant portion is gone now—but it’s just too damn good to let it go to waste.

She knows to expect it this time because of the slightest hesitation before he teases, “Well, it certainly was worth watching you enjoy it.”  Felicity blushes, but she thinks it’s worth the embarrassment; Oliver’s smile is a little smug, like he’s proud of himself for actually making a joke, and she thinks she likes that smile—maybe even a little _too_ much.

It’s then that she notices the way he stirs his food on the plate when he’s talking, and it takes her a minute to realize what he’s doing.  Between the occasional bite, he’s trying to make it look like he’s eating more than he is.  She points to it with her fork.  “You know, if you’re not a fan of Italian, I think I have a little Chinese takeout in the fridge,” she informs him.  He looks from the plate to her, the smile falling from his face.  “But the point is that you don’t have to pretend to enjoy it.”

He hesitates, and she immediately wishes she hadn’t brought it up; he has that same forlorn, guarded look that he always gets when the island is involved.  “I don’t eat much anymore,” he replies after a very long moment.  The silence is weighted, and she understands what he doesn’t say—that his body is accustomed to very little food after five years trying to survive.

She thinks it’s best to let the moment of awkwardness pass by skipping over it.  “So we’ll save it for leftovers,” she tries, keeping her tone neutral.  It seems to pull him away from the island, as he smiles, but he tilts his head to the side and squints his eyes.  At the confused expression, Felicity continues, “You know, leftovers?”  Her response doesn’t change his expression, and she shakes her head.  “I forget I’m talking to a billionaire sometimes.  When we lowly peasants have food isn’t eaten during a meal, we store it in these magical, plastic containers and put the food in our refrigerators.  Then, when we’re ready for food again—and too lazy to cook—we move the magical, plastic containers to a microwave and warm it up again.”

He seems bemused by her speech as he pushes his plate away.  “Well, we billionaires are more wasteful, apparently,” he replies, that teasing tone back in his voice again.  “Maybe you could save this, then—I’m finished.”

She knows she shouldn’t push this, so she doesn’t.  “Sure,” she says easily.  “I’m not going to turn down a free meal.”  It earns her a chuckle, but she’s distracted by the flash she sees out of the corner of her eye.  She wipes her hands before looking at the computer screen, pleased to find that the recovery is complete.  “You’re starting all over again,” she says, motioning to the laptop, “but at least you’re working.  And you have the chance to do things differently now.”

She means for the last line to be a joke, but he doesn’t seem to take it that way; he studies her with intense eyes for a very, very long moment.  “That’s exactly what I’d hoped for,” he responds finally, slowly, and Felicity doesn’t think he’s talking about the laptop anymore.  His hand touches hers as he picks up the laptop.  “Goodnight, Felicity,” he says gently before turning for the door.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” she responds quietly.  Softer, she adds, “And good luck.”  She doesn’t think he hears her before the door closes, but it doesn’t matter.  It isn’t about what they say to one another that makes their friendship, after all.

With them, it’s about something more—something that words can’t define.

 

* * *

 

The _last_ thing Quentin Lance is in the mood for is a visit to see Felicity Smoak, but he knows he needs to see her.  He tries to stay objective, but that just isn’t working for him on this case.  This time it’s personal from the beginning, and he can’t afford to let her run around haphazardly with the Hood any longer.  Not when things like _this_ happen.

He knocks on her door at three a.m., but he decides that if he’s not afforded any sleep, she shouldn’t be, either.  He instantly hears her mutt hopping around barking, but not much else.  Then he hears something crash and a muffled curse, and he wonders what in the world she’s gotten herself into now.

He hears the first lock slide free, then the second, then finally the third before she opens the door.  It’s clear he pulled her out of a night of sleep (and he _hates_ that— _really_ ) because her hair is loose and sticking up at odd angles.  Her glasses are a little askew, her eyes wide.  “What happened, Detective?” she asks in a rush.  “Who’s hurt?  Is it Barry?  Because I told him he should be more careful with that melting point device.  I mean, I can only repair the short in it so many times, and it’s getting worse.”

“Everyone’s fine, Miss Smoak,” he assures her.  “I needed to talk to you about some events tonight.  May I come in?”

She opens the door wide, looking a little shell-shocked as she wipes at the corner of her eye with a blue fingernail.  “Sure, come on in, Detective,” she answers numbly.  As he walks past her, he notices her taste in pajamas again, this time a little ironically.  It’s a matching set, but the shirt has a cat with a balaclava on, holding up two shurikens.  The print surrounding it reads, “Lazy Days, Ninja Nights.”  Sure, it might not be _completely_ accurate, but he already knows she’s spending her nights helping the Hood.

She follows him into the room, collapsing on the couch.  In the hallway, he notices that a lamp has been knocked over, and he can only guess that it caused the crashing sound from earlier.  “I’m hoping there’s a very valid reason why you came to see me at this hour.”

“Several,” he replies flatly, not liking her tone.   _He_ doesn’t want to talk to _her_ either, but this is important—much bigger than any cat-and-mouse game they’ve been playing so far.  “I ran into our favorite criminal tonight, Miss Smoak.”  She perks up at that, her head rising and her expression suddenly much more alert and the fog clearing from her eyes.  “I know you’re working with him.”  She opens her mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand.  “I’ve heard you lie to me enough in the past few weeks.  I’m not asking you to incriminate yourself.  But the Hood held my daughter hostage tonight to escape, and I want to know _why_ he would try to hurt her.  They’ve been working together, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” she responds immediately, and Lance thinks that she might be telling the truth, judging by the way her eyes widen.  “Is Laurel okay?”  When he nods tersely, her expression changes, and Lance can see the cogs working below the surface.  “In a hypothetical situation,” she continues slowly, her words implying she’s anything but, “I’d say that a criminal with his own honor system—like, say, _the Arrow_ —wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t try him first.”  Lance snorts in disbelief, but she doesn’t stop for a second.  “And, personally, I’d think it was more a way to stop the cops from arresting him.”

She nods a few times, as if she likes this theory.  “Think about it.  No matter what, if a person takes a hostage, you don’t shoot, right?”  She shakes her head.  “Of course not.  Because you could endanger an innocent civilian.  So taking Laurel with the _threat_ of attempting to hurt her stops him from going to jail.”  She crosses her arms.  “The Arrow doesn’t hurt his friends, Detective,” she says defiantly, and he doesn’t think that it’s so hypothetical this time.  “Laurel might be shaken—and I understand that—but she was _never_ in any danger.”

“He doesn’t hurt his friends, but he uses them,” he says flatly, not impressed by her statement. “Maybe that should serve as a warning to you.”  She doesn’t immediately say anything, so he turns to leave before she asks him to get the hell out.  He knows it’s coming, so he decides to preemptively retreat.

“You may not want to hear this, Detective,” she says slowly, quietly, from behind him, “but anyone who decides to help the Arrow?  They don’t just sign on for his help.”  He turns, only to find her staring off into the distance, not looking at him.  “They sign on to help the city.  They know it’s not legally right”—again she words it carefully, qualifies it—”but they do it anyway.”  She bites her lip before adding, “And I think Laurel probably knew that.”

It does nothing but confirm his worst fears—that his daughter is firmly entrenched with this criminal—so he chooses to ignore it, leaving.  He doesn’t stop until he reaches his car outside, not bothering to say goodnight.  Only then does he look up to the apartment complex across the street, unsurprised to see her talking on her cell phone.  There’s only one person she could be calling at this hour, and Lance knows who it is.

Triumphant, he makes a call to headquarters.  “This is Detective Lance,” he says to the random guy who answers.  “I need a wiretap on all numbers belonging to Felicity Smoak.”  He knows she’s smarter than that, but he has to give it a try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> 01\. "Feel Again" - Taio Cruz  
> 02\. "Don't Let Me Be Lonely" - The Band Perry  
> 03\. "Life is Beautiful" - Sixx:A.M.  
> 04\. "Somewhere in Neverland" - All Time Low  
> 05\. "Fall for You" - Secondhand Serenade


	23. Secure Data Transfer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arrow needs a favor, and it wouldn't make for a story if Felicity refused him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/1KtauWdiJmEYqTIxHm9nod).
> 
> First of all, I _love_ this chapter and I'm excited to _finally_ start discussing it with you all. I'm writing about 3-4 updates ahead of where you're reading, so I basically have to hold back and try not to give everything away because I'm so excited about what's happening next. We're officially working in 1.13 Betrayal right now, and it's one of my favorite episodes in season one, so I'm pumped about it.
> 
> Secondly, I am running so far behind on reviews it's not even funny. I'm doing my best, but this week has been taken up with a landslide of physics homework, learning basic anatomical terms, revisiting organic chem/biochem, studying for an animal A&P test, and writing resumes and cover letters. And I have one class that hasn't even technically started yet. So yeah, between sixteen hours on the road every week and the intensity of my classes, you guys are kind of getting the short end of the stick. I'm sorry, but I'm just not into the swing of things yet. Heck, I haven't even finished the chapter I'm supposed to have finished by today. :/ So, bear that in mind while you're wondering if I'm ever going to respond to your message/review/comment.
> 
> Anyway, if you're still kind enough to review/comment, thank you in advance. If you're kind enough to keep reading, thank you for that, too. :)

Felicity wakes to a hand shaking her shoulder, and it pulls her out of her dreams too quickly. She flails, startled as her bleary eyes try to focus, and a hand grabs her wrist. She's surprised to find she's holding her alarm clock, ready to hit her intruder with it. "It's just me, Felicity," he says gently through the synthesizer, letting a glove fall on her face. At the same time, her eyes focus on the blurry outline of the Arrow, and she takes a few deep, calming breaths as she sets her alarm clock back on the table. He's crouched in front of her bed, his opposite hand still on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry that I tried to hit you with my alarm clock," she blurts, then winces. "You startled me." She sits upright then, reaching across him for her glasses case, then slides them on her face as Saphira makes her way toward him. Felicity is surprised to find that he doesn't pass her a treat this time.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he says in some semblance of apology, still crouching in front of her. She pats the bed, and he joins her. Felicity gets a kick out of watching Saphira paw at his back for his attention as he turns away from her, but she tries to contain her sleep-deprived giggles. "But, if you say yes, we need to move as fast as possible."

_If_ she says yes? With maybe a little more hostility than necessary, she replies, "Well, I've never turned you down before." Then she bites her lip, thinking that she might have overreacted. Generally, there's a reason when he says things like that, and she shouldn't doubt him now. "Sorry—I'm moody when I first wake up."

He sidesteps her apology as he uses his thumb to guide her lip out from between her teeth. "No, you've always helped me," he agrees quietly, "but this time is different." He looks away for a moment before saying, "This time, it's a personal favor." She can't help to sit a little straighter at that; Arrow business is generally impersonal, so, if he's asking, it's probably going to be interesting. "And I want you to say no if it makes you uncomfortable."

She doesn't say anything, and he finally continues, "Laurel Lance has been helping me investigate some of my targets recently. She brought Cyrus Vanch to my attention a few nights ago—he murdered his lawyer and he's not going to stop killing." He sighs. "During the... incident a few nights ago"—she knows the one he means; it was the one where the police used Laurel as bait to catch him—"she was handing me information. Vanch has a cop on his payroll, and he passed the information that we were working together on to Vanch. They've taken her hostage, and Detective Lance and I are going to be working together since he can't trust anyone in the department."

He frowns. "Vanch is in his lawyer's house, and the wiring is controlled by computer circuitry." He hesitates. " _If_ you agreed"—she appreciates the way he emphasizes that she has a choice—"to help me, lighting control would assure I had the advantage against Vanch's guards." He frowns. "You'd be out in the field, but I can position you in a location out of harm's way."

She doesn't even flinch. "You've done plenty of favors for me over the past few months. It would be the least I could do." She turns away as his eyes take on that dark, intense look again, even though she sees his mouth start to turn up at the corners in a rare smile.

His fingers use her chin to turn her head back to his direction, and he says quietly, "Felicity, you don't owe me anything." He says it so confidently, so assuredly, that she thinks he might actually believe it. But how can he, when he's given her so much that she'll never repay? For once in her life, she feels like she _belongs_ to something, and that she feels like it's an important cause is all the better. He must see the doubt in her eyes because he rephrases it and she understands this time when he says, "I don't want you to do this because you feel like you owe me something. You'll be in the field tonight, and I can't promise your safety." His hand falls one of hers, the one that rests on her leg. "But I won't put you in danger—and I'll do my best to keep you safe." When he says it, she knows it's a promise he intends to keep.

But even before he finishes speaking, she already knows what she's going to say: "Of course." Even taking the Arrow out of the equation—something that is now nearly impossible in her life—she’s not going to let anyone die because she won’t flip a few switches on her computer. Especially not Laurel Lance, who is important to Oliver and Tommy’s entire world.

The Arrow immediately rises from his place by her side. "I'm parked behind your car," he states calmly. "Meet me downstairs." And then he's headed back to her window, as if that's all he needs to say. Felicity is amused by how quickly he switches between talkative and time for action; one minute, he's teasing her, and the next he's all business.

"Hey, wait," she calls, and he turns immediately. "What do I need to wear?" she blurts, and then she's glad it's dark in the room so he can't watch her go crimson. "Well, that came out wrong. I didn't mean to sound like I'm about to go on a first date or anything. But I've never exactly gone on a rescue mission, and I'm not exactly sure what attire is considered appropriate." She motions to her pajamas, decorated with smiley faces with moustaches. "But I'm pretty sure this isn't it."

He chuckles, shaking his head at her rant. "Dark clothing," he replies with a faint hint of an indulgent smile, "and shoes you can run in. Make sure to grab a laptop to take with you—you'll need it."

She nods. "Meet you downstairs in five," she assures him, watching him disappear out the window before ransacking her closet for the proper attire. She manages to pull on a very warm, long-sleeved shirt made like the one he gave her, but this one fits her much better. She couples it with a long-forgotten pair of black jeans, and she pulls her hair back into a ponytail as she slips her feet into a pair of black boots.

It takes her all of five seconds to pack up her most reliable laptop in its bag, and she practically jogs down the stairs after locking Saphira in the spare bedroom. As promised, the Arrow is waiting for her, leaning against the sleek motorcycle parked behind her car. She swallows hard as she realizes she has to ride on that… _deathtrap_ again, but this is bigger than her fear.

And she knows he’ll make sure nothing happens to her—either on his motorcycle or in the field.

She shivers in the night air; it’s colder than she expects, colder than it’s been in weeks. The Arrow notices immediately (of course he does), and he picks up a cloth draped over his motorcycle. When he holds it out, she finally realizes that it’s an average zip-up hoodie in black. “Your hair will stand out,” he explains, “and I knew you wouldn’t bring a hat.”

“Thanks,” she mutters as she drops her bag to the concrete of the parking garage so she can pull it on. To her surprise, it’s just a size bigger than what she usually wears, allowing the hood to fully cover her hair and face. He must have bought it specifically for her for tonight, and she thinks it’s a surprisingly generous offer. “Good fit,” she adds after she zips it up over her shirt, and she can’t keep the questioning expression from her face as she slides her messenger bag across her body to hold it in place for the ride to come.

He doesn’t look at her, but instead focuses on throwing a leg over the motorcycle while replying, “I knew you’d say yes, even if I hoped you wouldn’t.” The sentence causes her to smile at him, and he finally looks at her as he offers her his helmet again. “But I wanted to give you the chance to say no.”

“You know me too well,” she counters with a smile before pulling the helmet over her head. This time she knows what she’s doing, so it’s only seconds before she’s sliding onto the motorcycle behind him.

“I could say the same to you,” he answers after a long moment. He stumbles over the word “same,” and Felicity doesn’t think it’s coincidence that she takes the same moment to wrap her arms around his ribcage in preparation for the ride. He revs the bike once before commenting on it: “I think you’re a little eager to hold on tight.”

Before she can answer, he tears off into the night. The ride is longer this time, and the first one is _nothing_ compared to this one in speed. The sense of urgency is present, and she presses herself against his back to help protect her from the biting chill in the air. She closes her eyes this time, not wanting to see how many near-death experiences result from his driving. All she knows is that it’s accompanied by honking horns for a very long time.

Finally he slows, and she opens her eyes to see a section of the forest in front of her. He’s still driving, but slower now as he creeps up on the target. When he stops, she can only just see the house between the trees, and she thinks it might actually be a good place to be during the firefight sure to follow.

He watches as she sits on the ground next to the motorcycle, pulling out the laptop and starting in. With a few keystrokes and a good signal, she’s able to connect to the mansion’s computerized system. She tests it with a power surge, and she watches in triumph as the outside lights flicker in the distance. Felicity looks up at the Arrow as she says, “I think we’re set.”

He pulls an object out of his pocket before crouching in front of her, and she watches those dark eyes bore into hers. He reaches out to her, gently fixing the comm from his pocket over her ear. “This will keep us in direct contact,” he says quietly. “You shouldn't get into trouble out here, but if you do, keys are in the ignition. Your handle is Oracle.”

She swallows, and she looks down at her shaking fingers. His hand falls on hers, causing her to look up at him. “I can take you home,” he says gently, reminding her that this is always her choice, and that she can still say no. There’s no judgment in his expression, no disappointment. He knows he’s testing her comfort zone, and he respects that this isn’t her life.

“No, I’m with you,” she insists, and her voice only shakes a little. Nothing has prepared her for this, and she knows the only way to find her balance in this mission is to jump right in. But that doesn't mean she isn't scared.

"You always are," he answers with a smile, and there's something buried in her tone that makes Felicity's mouth turn up in an involuntary smile, in spite of the circumstances. He takes a moment to cup her jaw in a gesture of gratitude, and then he's gone, disappearing into the forest.

All is eerily quiet as she waits for her next cue. It feels like every nerve ending is on fire, and she doesn’t think she’s been this tense in her entire life. She jumps when he calls, “Oracle, cut the exterior lights.” His voice is different somehow—darker even under that synthesizer—and she realizes his mind is in a different place now. He’s of the mindset of a soldier, and she finally understands why the citizens of Starling City check their closets every night for the Arrow.

She sighs before she makes the right keystrokes, taking a few calming breaths. If she keeps up this level of intensity, she’s going to give herself a heart attack. And she’ll be of no use to the Arrow then.

Darkness falls in the courtyard, and then she hears nothing again for a very long time. Finally, she’s able to hear him take a long, steady breath, and she hears him exhale underneath the _thwip_ of a bowstring being released. It’s a new experience for her, hearing it; she’s never been on the scene for his missions before, and it provides her with an insight no one else has ever had.

Gunfire erupts, but, through the chaos, she’s able to hear his breaths and the steady release of the bowstring. He’s oddly calm amongst the chaos, and she realizes after a few shots that he’s timing his releases with his exhales.

“I’m in the house now,” he says quietly to her after a long round of fighting. His voice is barely above a whisper, but, with the silence in the forest, it’s as if he’s yelling in her ear. “Lights off.in the southern half of the house.”

She complies, though she asks, “Are you sure you don’t need some light on the subject?” She bites her lip afterward, not knowing if she should be speaking or not. He didn’t give her any direction on that, and she doesn’t want to distract him.

“Negative,” he answers quickly, and he doesn't seem irritated by her interruption. “It’s easier for me to blend in the darkness.” He releases another set of arrows, and she hears his sigh through the speaker.

“That sounds like something is wrong,” she comments, and she knows she’s right when he doesn’t answer. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she asks when he doesn’t answer.

“I’m out of arrows,” he whispers to her. Moving right along, as if he hasn’t just said that he’s defenseless, he says, “I’ve searched the bottom floor, and I know where they are. Keep the lights on in the northern part of the house. Be prepared for my signal to cut the light.”

She types the code into her screen, waiting to press the button that will shut everything down. “So, for the sake of clarification, we’re _not_ freaking out about the fact that your bow is useless right now?” she asks, trying to play it off as casual. She doesn’t think she succeeds, judging by the sigh she receives in response.

So low she barely hears him, he answers, “I don’t need the bow, Felicity.” There’s something different about his voice, and the dark quality to it sends a chill down her spine, even though she pretends it’s the night air.

He takes a deep breath, and then she hears a new voice say, “Lose the bow, Merida.” She groans—this guy should _seriously_ not know Disney movies. She bites her tongue to prevent herself from saying it’s a ridiculous comparison because he’s not Scottish. “You made a mistake by coming here alone,” the guy says, and Felicity can only assume it’s Vanch.

“ _You_ made a mistake,” the Arrow counters, “if you think I came alone.” There’s silence for a long moment before he adds, “And my friends are more reliable than yours.” Felicity can’t suppress a smile and a swell of pride at that comment because she knows he’s talking about her.

She hears a few long breaths before the Arrow barks, “Oracle, _now_.” She hits the one button left to shut down the lights. All that follows is a cacophony of sound; she can’t distinguish one voice from another in the chaos. There’s yelling, gunfire, grunting, and they all blend together.

“What’s going on?” she asks into the comm, and her voice is about two octaves too high.

She hears a new noise of something twirling through the air, and then the Arrow says, “I’m the vigilante. You’re the cop.” Softer, he says into the comm, “Everything’s fine, Oracle. Mission complete.”

“Get out of here before I change my mind and turn you in,” she hears the unmistakable voice of Detective Lance say in the background. “And thank your girlfriend for me." It makes Felicity blush, and she's grateful the Arrow isn't with her to see.

"You don't give her enough credit, Detective," the Arrow answers after a long moment. "She's too smart to get involved any further with me." Felicity holds her breath, knowing him well enough to read between the lines. Detective Lance may not hear what he's not saying, but Felicity does, loud and clear.

And, for the first time, she realizes what a fool she was for turning him down all those weeks ago.

Her thoughts reel out of control as she packs up her laptop, as she gathers her things and puts them back into her messenger bag. She hears a rustle in the trees, and she freezes, waiting to hear back from the Arrow.

He seemingly appears out of the trees, walks out of the still forest behind him. He immediately walks up to her, placing his hand on her face. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly, his eyes roaming over her, as if to make sure she's still safe and uninjured. It's all she can do to manage a nod; the intensity is just too strong for her to speak. His hand falls on her shoulder, and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Good. Let's get you home."

Nothing more is said until they climb up on the motorcycle, and she seizes the opportunity. With his back to her, she doesn't have to worry about another too intense moment between them. It gives her a shield from the power of what she's about to say. "Oh, and one other thing?" she asks quietly as she pulls the helmet over her head again, her voice high and fluttery in preparation for what comes next. He makes a noise of acknowledgment, seeming to understand that this is Felicity's turn to speak. It takes her a few deep breaths to work up the courage, and she wraps her arms around him again, murmuring the words against his back. Her face flushes in anticipation of her words. Finally, she musters up the courage to say, "Maybe I'm not as smart as you think."

He doesn't say anything, but, when he turns toward her, she sees a glorious smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

After he drops Felicity home, Oliver goes directly to the precinct, waiting for an opportunity to speak to Laurel. He doesn’t think he should go to her home—too many memories in such a small place—but he thinks it’s time he stops running from her. Now, though, he finally has the courage to move forward, to firmly settle Laurel into her place in his past.

He has to admit, it tears at him. Part of him isn’t willing to let go, to allow Laurel to fade into the past. But he knows it’s only familiarity that draws him to her, and the Oliver that Laurel was in love with is long gone. He understands that now, and he doesn’t even feel that pang of sadness when he sees her with Tommy anymore. The message is finally clear to him: she’s moved on.

And, surprisingly, he has, too.

It’s difficult for him to admit, even to himself, that Felicity is starting to hover in a place that is much more than friendship. He can’t really deny it anymore, though, since he tried to kiss her. It was a foolish, impulsive move, and he was almost grateful when she stopped him. With that moment in mind, he had told Detective Lance that she was too smart to fall for him, and he had believed it. But then she’d changed the game after saying those words to him tonight: _Maybe I’m not as smart as you think._ That phrase has dual meanings, Oliver thinks; not only is she telling him that she’s willing to give him another opportunity, but that he’s not the only one who felt foolish after the almost-kiss.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts as Laurel strides out of the precinct, and he slides out of his hiding place to face her. Her eyes widen and she takes a step back, surprised by his sudden appearance. He forgets sometimes that not everyone is familiar with his ability to appear out of thin air; Felicity doesn’t even seem to notice anymore, except for when he wakes her out of a sound sleep. “Good evening, Laurel,” he says, making sure to switch on the synthesizer first. “Are you all right?”

She frowns at that, and it bothers him a little to watch her wipe at the lines of mascara under her eyes. Clearly that’s from earlier, when she was at Vanch’s mercy. But then Oliver reminds himself that’s why he wanted to rescue her in the first place. She takes a long, deep breath before saying in a breathy voice, “What would you think if I said I didn’t know?”

“That you were being honest,” he replies immediately, and they’re the most honest words he’s said to her in over five years. He’s lied to her, manipulated her, cheated on her, and _now_ that they’re finished, he’s finally learning how to be honest with her.

“Thank you,” she says finally, her voice more solid this time. “You risked a lot by coming to save me.” She hesitates before adding, “As did your girlfriend.” He tilts his head to the side. “I heard my father mention it,” she explains simply. He knows that look, and he knows she’s fishing for information.

He doesn’t bite because he knows that fisherman’s bait when he sees it. “I have enough friends to call in favors when I need them,” he replies evenly. “But I think you’ve exhausted yours.” He holds out his hand. “I want the phone back, Laurel.” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Now that someone knows that we work together, it makes you a target. I can’t put you in danger.”

She frowns, but she throws the phone into his hand, her lips pursed in anger. Maybe her fear of him is still strong enough to manipulate her into doing as he asks. “I’m a big girl,” she still argues. “This doesn’t change anything. I knew the risks.”

“I did, too,” he counters, “but I’m no longer willing to take them with you.” He can’t deny the truth in it; once upon a time, it might have been because he was in love with her. But now, it’s because he knows he couldn’t face Tommy if anything happened to Laurel and it was his fault.

He’s so preoccupied with Laurel that he doesn’t hear the footsteps before he sees the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He knows the man has probably seen him, but hopefully he can get out quick enough that it doesn’t end in a confrontation—for Oliver, anyway. “Goodbye, Laurel,” he says, and it’s final.

Because all is as it should be—Oliver is walking out of Laurel’s life as Tommy is walking in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> 01\. "Get Thru This" - Art of Dying  
> 02\. "Before the Worst" - The Script  
> 03\. "Hallelujah" - Paramore  
> 04\. "Never Close Our Eyes" - Adam Lambert  
> 05\. "Falling in Love" - Taio Cruz  
> 06\. "Can't Remember to Forget You" - Shakira feat. Rihanna  
> 07\. "All I Need" - Within Temptation


	24. Computer Refurbishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver has computer problems. So does Felicity. Well, duh, of course she does--she's in IT, so her job is defined by computer problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/6P0p4eYtV3fsYq6I47CgVP). ("Sparks Fly" is not included because the song isn't available on Spotify.)
> 
> This chapter was some intense hard work, but I think it paid off. But I'll let you all judge the end result. ;) Reviews/comments are awesome and appreciated (you all help feed the muse), but that you're here reading sort of makes my day. :)
> 
> Also, super special thanks to Twink (ihatepeas) for being awesome enough to binge-read two chapters and a side story to see about one measly paragraph in the side story. :P She pointed out a ton of grammatical errors in this one, so she gets all my love and gratitude. :)

Felicity sighs as she looks at her computer screen yet again, but this time she puts her head in her hands.  She hates being on the tech support logs, even though she thinks it's fair that they take turns; all she does all day is type report after report into the log.  Someone's computer screws up, so she posts it to the log for a tech to repair.  Then, she has to file the tickets the techs fill out when the job is complete, and everyone must think it's a crime to fill out the whole damn thing.

She lets out a growl of frustration as she looks at the next ticket in line, frowning because half of the thing is missing.  Tired of the bureaucracy of working in a large office, she denies the ticket and writes a somewhat nasty note to the person, saying that she can't fill out a repair ticket without even knowing what the fix _was_.  She looks down at her clock forlornly—it's six o'clock and she still has several hundred requests and tickets to process.  So much for getting home at a reasonable hour.  She'd like a normal night every now and again—one that doesn't involve logging five hours overtime or running around the city at three a.m. with the Arrow.

A chuckle comes from her doorway, and she looks up, startled to learn that anyone else is on the floor.  She's even more surprised to find none other than Oliver Queen leaning against her door frame, a very busted laptop in hand.

"Shit," she offers in greeting, "I completely forgot about fixing your laptop tonight."  She had called him a few days ago to let him know that the new casing was in, and she had told him to drop by her apartment at five-thirty.  Between the normal grind and the sleep deprivation from too many encounters with the Arrow starting to wear on her, she had forgotten.  "How mad are you?"

"I'm not mad," he assures her with a convincing smile, sitting down in the chair inside her station.  "When you weren't there, I knew you'd probably forgotten."  There's something loaded about his smile now, as if he's making his own private joke as he continues, "Though you don't seem like the type to forget an appointment."  He sets a styrofoam box on her desk, and she immediately places the smell—and it's _divine_.  "And, if I remember correctly, we made a deal that I was to provide dinner."  He offers her a rare, wide smile. "And we hired that chef, so if you find yourself craving Italian, you could always stop by Verdant when it opens."

"Oliver Queen, you know me too well," she answers as she removes her plastic fork from its wrapper.  She finds it a little odd that she's said those words to two different people in the past week, both of whom she didn't know a few months ago.

He offers her a small smile, this one maybe more genuine than the last.  "I could say the same to you," he says quietly, and she stops halfway through opening her box, remembering the Arrow saying exactly the same words.  She shakes her head.  No, that's ridiculous, and she should know better; Oliver doesn't have the sort of training that the Arrow does.  She heard him storm a house full of mercenaries last week with a _bow_ , and there are a select few people she thinks could be that talented.  Oliver isn't one of them.

She resumes with opening the box, and she plunges her fork into the waiting pasta with enthusiasm.  This time she knows to stifle the groan that threatens to escape her, and she says, "You know, it's better now than it was the last time.  This should be illegal, it's so good."  She frowns.  "But then I wouldn't get to eat it."  He snickers at that, and she manages to glance at a clock and see what time it is.  "Oh, damn, you were supposed to pick up Thea at six, weren't you?"  That's why they'd originally agreed on five-thirty; he was supposed to drop off the laptop and then pick up Thea and come back for it.  Since she's without a license, Oliver somehow was roped into being her chauffeur, and Felicity thinks Thea might not be the most patient person in the world.

He waves a hand, though he seems surprised she remembered.  "Tommy said he would take care of it," he answers.  "I think he was tired of yelling at contractors all day, anyway."

She breathes a sigh of relief.  "Well, I'm sorry I blew it, Oliver."  She motions to her computer screen.  "I blame report tickets."

He waves a hand, biting back a laugh.  "You're doing a favor for me, Felicity," he answers.  "I'm glad you have time to help at all.  You seem busy."  He reaches out hesitantly, his expression turning serious, to touch a shadow under her eye that she didn't take time to cover this morning.  "And tired."  He tilts his head to the side.  "Maybe you should take some vacation time."

She scoffs, leaning back.  "And leave this office for a few days?"  She crosses her arms.  "I don't think so, mister.  By the time I came back, it would be up in flames without me."  And she doesn't exactly know where she'd go on vacation; it's never very fun alone, and she has to be on-call for the Arrow.  "Besides, if I left the city for a week, I think it would crumble without me here."  She manages to say it jokingly, but she doesn't think it's exactly a lie.

"It probably would," Oliver agrees, and she's surprised to find it a sincere statement.  "But that doesn't mean you don't deserve some time off every now and again."  With a knowing smile, he adds, "I'm sure your boss would understand.  If not, I think I know someone who could convince him."

She points a finger at him.  "Don't you dare," she threatens.  "I know you already convinced my boss to give me time off during that press conference, and you are _not_ allowed to do it again."  He chuckles, and something in his expression tells her that he's going to ignore her and do what he wants anyway.  "You, Oliver Queen, are absolutely impossible."

He seems to take it as a compliment, smiling and allowing a breathy almost-laugh.  "I'm not the one who thinks the city will crumble without them," he counters almost _playfully_ , and she's glad to see this side of him.

She crosses her arms, not backing down from their silly argument.  "Clearly spoken by someone with no responsibility whatsoever," she replies after swallowing another bite of pasta.  "I can't help it if it's true.  Do you realize what kind of city Starling would be without me?"

"Cold, desolate, and unforgiving," he replies immediately, and his tone is far different this time.  Felicity has to look away because some things just shouldn't be said with that intensity, with that level of honesty.  She plunges her fork into another bite of pasta, focusing far more than necessary on it.

He clears his throat, and the moment passes.  "Maybe," he starts hesitantly, "while you're eating, I can help remove the casing?"  He motions to the laptop.  "I might as well make myself useful."

She thinks about it for a moment, then decides that, if he wants to help, who is she to say no?  She pulls open one of her desk drawers, throwing him a Philips screwdriver.  "Knock yourself out," she replies, then adds, "but not really."  It earns her another soft laugh as he picks up the screwdriver carefully, turning over the computer to remove the screws.

She watches him carefully since she figures he's never done this before, and she winces when she watches him hold the screwdriver like a toddler holding a crayon; he wraps his entire hand around it, leaving the base uncovered.  He turns when she groans, and she answers with, "No, Oliver.  No.  You're holding it wrong."  She slips it out of his hand, and she presses the end of the handle into his palm, curling his fingers around it.  "Like this.  It's easier to twist in your hand—saves time."  He doesn't immediately say anything, and she looks up to see him staring at their hands, hers still firmly gripped over his.

She pulls back immediately, and she can feel the heat on her face that betrays her embarrassment.  "Sorry,” she says, turning back to her pasta, taking one last bite before pulling the new casing out from under her desk and opening the packaging.

He finishes with the screwdriver and lays it on the table on the other side of him, so Felicity reaches across his workspace to pick it up before using it to twist the screws out.  She manages two before he says, “I think I’m finished with this.”

She inspects his work before murmuring her agreement.  “Looks good,” she approves quietly.  “Not bad for an amateur.”

He chuckles, and she finishes removing the components carefully before starting to combine them into the new casing.  She holds out a wire from the new monitor, since she’s not _about_ to tackle the mess of switching out the screen.  “Hold this,” she commands, holding out a cable.

She’s surprised to find him leaning over her shoulder, their arms touching as he reaches for the cable.  “I don’t remember you being this bossy,” he says with a smile in his voice, and Felicity tries not to blush as she feels his breath against the shell of her ear.

She nudges his shoulder with her own.  “Maybe not,” she agrees in a teasing tone, feeling the corners of her mouth pull up, “but you like it when I get all assertive.”  She notices that the tone in her voice is almost _flirty_ , but then she thinks that’s ridiculous because she doesn’t flirt with _Oliver Queen_.  “Admit it.”  She doesn’t look at him, already feeling her face heat at her foolishness.  Something about him brings out the more relaxed side of herself that she only seems to use around Barry (minus the flirting, of course) and the Arrow (perhaps with some flirting involved).  He doesn’t say anything for a very long moment, so long that she stumbles over her words, taking backwater.  “Sorry, I don’t know what that was.  You know about my problem where I just spew inappropriate words and babble on incessantly until someone stops me.  You must think I’m—”

“Felicity,” he says gently, and then he tilts her head in his direction.  She’s not surprised to see him smiling; her antics always seem to brighten his mood.  “I think you’re remarkable.”  He lets out a breathy almost-laugh, and Felicity can’t remember the last time she saw him smile like that.  “Babbling and all.”  He releases her then, and she tries to remember how to breathe.

“Well,” she manages finally, “thank you for remarking on it.”  Something passes between them then, and Oliver gently reaches out to cup her face.  His expression changes slowly, turning steadily more serious.  She thinks he might actually be about to _kiss_ her, and she wonders when things went so terribly wrong that she has two very different men that seem to be _interested_ in her.

Before she can panic and turn him down, too, she can hear the _click click click_ of high heels on the polished floor, and feminine laughter echoing down the hall.  Oliver pulls away immediately, running a hand over his face.  She knows that tell, and she knows what it means—that he thinks he’s messed up.

The footsteps continue to grow louder, and Felicity knows there’s a clock ticking on this before it gets awkward, and it’s _her_ job to make things awkward.  “But, you know,” she continues, “people usually say thank you with gifts.  Like more pasta.”  One corner of his mouth tilts up as she reaches across the desk to take another bite.  She swallows before continuing, “I highly recommend more pasta.  I would seriously consider hacking the NSA database for another plate of this.”

His eyes widen in surprise and something resembling awe.  “You can _do_ that?” he asks quietly.

She immediately retracts her statement.  “Well,” she admits, “probably.  Not that I’ve ever tried—I don’t just break into secure government databases for the fun of it.”  It’s true, she thinks as she crosses her arms; after all, the last time she did that was for the Arrow, and it was to find out more about a criminal.  “My point is, you could make me rethink my morals for another plate of this ambrosia.”

Oliver shakes his head, laughing quietly to himself as the footsteps finally close in.  She’s surprised to see Thea strutting into Felicity’s office, Tommy in tow behind her.  “So this is how you two spend your Thursday nights?” Thea asks in greeting before turning to her brother.  “Because, I gotta say, Ollie, this isn’t exactly your scene—not enough blaring pop music and _severely_ lacking in alcohol.”

“Hey, be nice to him,” Tommy counters.  “He’s spent the last five years on an island with nothing.  He deserves a little club music and tequila after that.”  Felicity thinks it’s an odd statement because she’s never heard Oliver say anything about drinking; she’s always assumed he doesn’t touch alcohol because he simply can’t handle it anymore.

Oliver ignores his sister, looking over her head at Tommy instead.  “I told you to take her home,” he reminds Tommy with an irritated frown, and Felicity nudges his shoulder in warning.  He shouldn’t be so rude to Tommy, especially since they know this has Thea written all over it.  She brings new meaning to the word _meddlesome_.

“Relax, Ollie,” Thea replies on Tommy’s behalf.  “I talked him into it.  I needed to take the opportunity to say thank you to our best friend.”  Felicity might be a little taken aback by the comment; she doubted she was anyone that important to the likes of Thea Queen.  Thea turns to Felicity now.  “Thank you for getting that plea deal for me.  My community service job at CNRI kind of sucks,” she adds with a shrug, “but it’s better than jail.”

Oliver frowns, but Felicity knows it’s all she’s going to get.  She fights back a smile because the Queen siblings are so different and so alike at the same time; neither one can really admit the depth of their feelings, so they opt for blasé instead.  “It was my pleasure, Thea,” she answers honestly, then decides to respond in kind, as sincerity is clearly _not_ a Queen family trait.  “Besides, you wouldn’t be able to wear your Louboutins, and _no one_ looks good in _that_ shade of orange.”

They all laugh at that, then Oliver rises from his seat, placing a hand on her shoulder.  “Felicity has work to do,” he says insistently, “and I’m sure she’d like to go home at a decent hour tonight.”  He takes Thea by the arm, turning her in the opposite direction.  “Maybe we should do the same.”  He turns to Tommy.  “Give us a moment.”

Tommy ushers Thea out despite protests and Oliver turns back to Felicity, his hand going to her shoulder again.  “You don’t have to finish this tonight,” he states quietly, and then his hand goes to one of those circles under her eyes again.  “I’m in no hurry for my laptop, and I’d much rather see you rested, anyway.”

“I make no promises,” she answers slowly, “but _maybe_ I’ll try to relax.”  He frowns, but then realizes that’s the only answer she’s going to offer him.  After all, she needs to finish up those reports, and they’re not going to file themselves.

“Goodnight, Felicity,” he says finally, and then he’s gone, leaving her to finish up her work.

 

* * *

 

Oliver frowns as he realizes what he’s about to do next.  There's a certain amount of trepidation required because this isn't just another criminal, another rich person who thinks they're above the law.  He never thought that he'd be doing this when he started this crusade, but there's just too much evidence that he can no longer ignore.

But, still, this is his _mother_.

He knows she's working late on the merger with Unidac Industries, and he knows she's now alone in her office.  He made sure before he started this because extra people scurrying around makes for extra witnesses.  He pulls the cable on the grappling arrow taut to test its strength—a luxury he isn't always afforded—but he knows he's just stalling.

Still, he looks down in the parking complex, and maybe it comforts him more than it should that a little, red Mini Cooper is still parked in the lot behind the garage—the one reserved for IT staff.  At least, if he needs a speedy exit, he thinks, she decided to ignore his advice and stay late.  But he's not going to bother Felicity unless he has to; it's clear that the long hours at work and the late nights with the Arrow are starting to wear on her.

He takes a deep breath before gripping the cable with both hands, and then he starts into a dead run before he can change his mind.  When his foot catches the end of the roof, he jumps and depends on the rope to pull him back toward the building.  It works perfectly, and he prepares for the worst part:  crashing through the window.

He's able to plant his feet against it, which makes for less impact.  Glass flies everywhere, and when he lands in the office, his legs collapse under him as the pain sets in, even through the adrenalin rush.  He rises slowly as his mother, always the practical one, goes immediately for the phone.

He doesn't like his options, but if she calls security, the game is over.  Even kneeling and half-dazed from the fall, he's able to shoot the phone off her desk with a well-placed arrow.  He's able to rise to a standing position as he nocks another arrow and draws, and he utters the line he knows she'll expect:  "Moira Queen, you have failed this city."  The synthesizer only acts to make it sound more menacing, and a bolt of disbelief shoots through him.  He can't believe he's doing this.

She puts her hands in the air, looking just as scared and traumatized as he expects, but now the dread and guilt have been replaced with the cold, emotionally devoid quality of simply doing business.  "Please," she begs, and her voice sounds as if she's nearly in tears.  "Please don't hurt me.  You can take anything you want."  She grabs at a photograph on her desk, flashing a picture of their family, though it is about ten years old.  "I have a son who needs me and a daughter who isn't grown yet.  I'm all they have.  Please don't take me from them."

The icy façade breaks instantly.  Oliver has faced down a lot of bad people in these few past months, but none of them have begged for the sake of their family.  He's tried to make this impersonal, but it isn't.  That's his mother, and this was personal from the beginning.  "I'm not going to hurt you," he says finally, "provided you answer my questions."

He expects instant compliance, but some part of him has forgotten that his mother isn't always as demure as he expects.  Instead of replying, she reaches behind her, and before he can wonder what she's doing, he simultaneously feels pain coursing through his left shoulder and an unmistakable gunshot.

He ducks immediately, and he takes a brief moment to check the wound.  Blood isn't pouring from it, as he expects, but _squirting_ , blood shooting from it in time with his elevated heart rate.  Dread claws at him because this isn't any other bullet wound—this is arterial blood, and the clock is already ticking.  Then he realizes that she wasn't aiming to incapacitate; she was aiming to _kill_.  In its own way, that's an answer to his question—if she has secrets that would cause her to kill to keep them quiet, then she's probably as deep into this mess as he'd feared.

He hears her call security, and he knows this mission is a failure.  He has a nicked artery and security is on their way up.  He probably needs to clean up the blood, but he'd rather pass out in a place of his choosing.  There's only one way out now, and, as he watches her lean around the desk to see if he's still alive, he rolls out the broken window.

He draws a grappling arrow in free fall, firing it and catching the cable with his left arm.  Pain courses through his shoulder, causing him to groan, but he fights against it as he slides down the cable to the ground.  The roll doesn't make things feel any better, but he manages to scramble to his feet, even though he's starting to get the light-headed feeling from too much blood loss.  He presses a hand to the wound to stem the flow of blood, but it isn't working too well, as it pulsates through his fingers.  Adrenalin isn't on his side this time; the elevated heart rate is just cutting his time in half.

The car he's looking for is still there, and, on another day, he'd feel guilty about breaking into her car, but they're going to be looking for him soon.  It takes him all of five seconds to pick the lock, and he lays across the seat as best he can, with his head elevated and his knees in the air so that his feet can touch the seating.

He reaches into his pocket to pull out his cell phone, but the screen is splintered, probably grazed by the bullet in his chest.  Apparently, he’s just going to have to wait for Felicity to return to her car.  Time isn’t exactly his friend right now, so he hopes he has long enough.  But that’s not the part the part that gives him pause—it’s Felicity herself.  She’s not used to this kind of experience, and he had hoped to keep the violent part of his work away from her.

But the worst part of it all is that he was supposed to give her the night off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Look at You" - Big & Rich  
> "Heavy Cross" - Gossip  
> "Last of the American Girls" - Green Day  
> "Sparks Fly" - Taylor Swift  
> "Bottle It Up" - Sara Bareilles  
> "Let Me Go" - 3 Doors Down


	25. Emergency Drive Repair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity finds a surprise in the back of her car, and, sadly, it's not a box of puppies. It's the bad kind of surprise, like finding someone bleeding from a gunshot wound. Hypothetically, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/3FsABzXlqzr3YNhmdfhIcg). (Excludes "Howling" because it isn't on Spotify.)
> 
> HOLY CRAP, GUYS, THIS IS A MONSTER OF A CHAPTER. It actually didn't take me that long, but it somehow turned out at 5,200 words--nearly _double_ the length of my normal chapters. So, um, the next one's probably going to feel short after this. Whoops. :P But I can't think of anything to take out, so you get this. ;) And those of you asking for more Diggle, well, you got it. ;) I hope you think it was worth the week-long wait after that horrible cliffhanger I left you with. ;) Thanks in advance for reading, reviewing, and/or commenting! :D
> 
> **Also, be on the lookout for a new side story on Monday or Tuesday that deals with the fallout of what happens here.** It's going to be called "Data Synchronization," and it will sort of finish out what happens here. ;)
> 
> Another thank-you to ihatepeas, the crazy woman who binge-read two chapters and a side story just to help me fix one paragraph in the side story. :P

Felicity sighs as she unlocks her car remotely, ready for pajamas and a long night of mindless television. She has Oliver's laptop under her arm, and it's something she can work on if she feels like it, though she probably won't. With the tech support logs tonight, the _last_ thing she wants to do is more computer work. In fact, if she never sees a computer again, she thinks it might be too soon.

She slides into the driver's seat easily, starting the car before she even thinks to shut the door. She's so focused on checking her gauges that she doesn't think to check her rearview mirror, and she lets out a scream as she sees movement out of the corner of her eye. It's muted, however, by the hand that clamps over her mouth. She immediately reaches for his hand, trying to move it so that she can bite it and run, but an unnaturally deep voice says, "I'm not going to hurt you, Felicity. It's just me." He releases his hold on her, and she tries to stop her hands from shaking.

She answers with a curse so violent that it makes her blush, covering her mouth as it slips out. It surprises her, though, when he chuckles about it. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you? I don't care if you want to show up at my house like a stalker or at my office, but you just _don't_ hide out in the backseat of a girl's car. That's just a whole new level of creepy that even _I_ can't handle."

"I wouldn't have," he answers quickly, and Felicity realizes for the first time that there's something very wrong with his voice, "but it was urgent." Now she's able to hear his breathing in the quiet, and it's ragged and uneven, as though something is horribly wrong.

She turns in her seat to face him, and her eyes immediately land on the dark shirt that he's holding to his chest. It only takes her a second to notice the red spray underneath it, and ice cold dread claws its way down her spine. "Oh God, you've been shot," she says immediately. She tries to fight that pure feeling of terror, since it's more important to stay objective.

She means to ask him what he needs next, but he cuts her off with a dry, sarcastic, "Thanks for pointing that out. I hadn't noticed."

Her eyes narrow immediately. "Look, I'm going to give you that one because you're injured, but there's no reason for you to get sassy, mister." It earns her another soft laugh, which she figures is a good sign. She turns around, pulling her seatbelt across her shoulder. "So do me a favor and tell me where to go before I tell _you_ where to go."

She feels a little silly for chastising him when he's injured, but he seems to appreciate the sense of humor. "Twenty-Second," he says immediately. "Remember the place you took me at Christmas?" She remembers it clearly; something about highly stressful situations seem to make her memory work overtime. He groans as she pulls out of the parking space. "There's an entrance in the lot behind it—it looks like a piece of corrugated tin lying there. Pull it up, punch in the code two five, four two. Got it?"

"Yeah," she says, and she's very glad her voice isn't shaking. Suddenly the stress feels real as she pulls into the street, and she tries to avoid the traffic lights as she weaves in and out of lanes.

He groans again, and this time it's because he's pulled the cloth away. Felicity pays enough attention via the rearview mirror to see that the wound is spurting blood, not a steady flow like when she gets paper cuts. Her medical skills may be lacking, but even she knows that probably isn't good. "So, um," she tries to ask casually, but her voice is too high, "just exactly how bad is this?"

"It's not good," he answers quickly, and it does nothing for her nerves. "Moira Queen shot me." Felicity goes blank for a moment because there's no way those words can be right. She's met Moira Queen before, and the lady wouldn't harm a fly if you asked her to. "It nicked an artery, and I'm probably going to be unconscious soon." She can hear that for herself in the slur of his voice, as if he's barely holding on.

"But..." She can't even bring herself to ask it; the thought is too horrible. She forces it out, convincing herself it will hurt less if she does it quickly, like removing an adhesive bandage. "But you'll wake up again, right?"

She's surprised he's even able to hear her because she says it so softly, but he answers hesitantly, "I don't know." Part of her wishes he had lied to her, but part of her appreciates the honesty.

"Well, you'd better," she says flatly, letting the anger and frustration take over, if only to keep her from hysterics. "Because if you don't, I'm going to be royally pissed." He laughs like she's joking, but clearly he doesn't know her as well as she believed—because she's not teasing.

The rest of the ride is made in silence, and she sees him in her rearview mirror, his head tilted away as he lays limp against the seat. It causes Felicity a brief moment of panic as she realizes it might be too late by the time she reaches the location. Then she shakes her head because that kind of thinking isn't going to help her now. She has to think positive—to think that there's hope—or she knows it will be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

She pulls into the empty lot, surprised to realize it's behind Verdant. She thinks that might be awfully risky, to have a base behind an occupied building that functions primarily at night, but he didn't ask her when he decided to set up camp. Her headlights land on the piece of rusted tin lying there, and she stops the car, parking without cutting the engine before she runs over to it. Sure enough, she pulls it up to reveal a keypad of some kind. "Two five, four two," she says quietly as she punches in each number, and the light on it goes green and the hydraulic hatch releases to expose a series of stairs.

She tries to move him, she does, but he's way too heavy for her to carry him while unconscious, and she knows she'd probably dislocate his shoulder if she tried to drag him. That's the last thing he needs, with everything else going on.

Knowing she probably shouldn't charge in, she hesitantly unzips his jacket, trying to find his phone. She feels a little bad about digging through his stuff, but she figures he'll forgive her for it under the circumstances. She finds it and pulls it out, smiling when she finds two of her sticky notes stuck to it. She didn't expect him to be so sentimental.

She tucks the notes back in his pocket, then turns the phone over to find the screen shattered.  Frowning and trying not to panic, she turns it over, trying to find a way to crack the case.  With another thought, she checks his pockets again, this time going for his pants pockets to find the knife she used to cut that arrow out of his shoulder ages ago.  It's an awkward angle and motion, and she's glad he's not awake to see her face heat and make some comment about the fact.  All it takes is quick flick of the release lever on the switchblade, and then she's able to wedge the blade out of the back of the phone.  She pulls out the SIM card, grateful that her registered phone is the same model--even if hers is a little lacking on security protocols compared to his.

She frowns when she finds the PIN lock on it, but then enters the same numbers he gave her for the locked panel--two, five, four, two.  She doesn't expect it to work, but it does, and she does a small fist pump before she opens the phone's contact list.  She scrolls straight down to  "Associate," just like the last time.  She hears the moment it picks up, and she says into the phone before Diggle can say anything, "Mr. Diggle, this is Felicity. We're outside the underground entrance." She notices the twinge of hysteria to her voice, but she doesn't have time for hysterics. "He's unconscious, and I can't move him by myself. He was shot, and—" She chokes over the word as it finally sets in, then, quieter, adds, "And it's not good."

"I'm on my way out," is his only response, and the line goes dead. She notices how dark it is in the lot, and so she cuts the headlights and the ignition before anyone can notice.

She almost misses Diggle, but a flash of movement lets her know he's there. "Hey," she says quietly after she gets out of the car, opening the passenger door so that he can see the Arrow slumped across it. "Can you lift him, or will you need help?"

Diggle frowns. "We'll need to keep him in a horizontal position," he answers, showing some semblance of a medical background, "so I'll need your help." He looks from the Arrow to her. "I'll take the brunt of the weight if you'll lift his legs."

They somehow manage to slide him out of the car, and Felicity manages to carry the Arrow's legs under the knees. Diggle had the forethought to place a gurney at the bottom of the staircase, so they slide him onto that and roll him into their base of operations.

Felicity doesn't know what she expects, but this isn't it. She supposes she imagined it as a slipshod operation with little to impress, but she was wrong. A display of arrows sits off to one side, a nice glass-and-steel desk made to store a laptop that isn't there. Diggle slides the gurney into place behind the computer desk before pulling out a toolbox with a defibrillator on top, and Felicity realizes they've prepared for this possibility.

The Arrow's head slumps to the side, away from her, and she can see only the outline of his jaw under that hood, dark brown stubble covering it. His hood has fallen back enough that she can see part of his mask, and she pulls it back to cover his face.

It earns her an odd look from Diggle. "You know," he starts slowly, "you've saved his life. I don't think he'd be upset if you knew his actual name."

Felicity shakes her head adamantly. "No," she says flatly, her eyes on the Arrow instead of Diggle. "If I'm going to learn who he is when he's _not_ under that hood, it's going to be because he tells me." She bites her lip. "I've stopped digging into his past, Diggle, because it doesn't matter to me anymore. If he wants me to know, he'll tell me. It's up to him now."

She turns her attention away from the Arrow, choosing to look at Diggle for direction. He apparently respects her wishes because he asks, "Do you know anything about medicine?" Felicity shakes her head, her eyes wide as she realizes they don't know how to save him. But Diggle sighs and allays her fears a little with, "I have some basic training from the Army, but that's it."

He frowns as he unzips the green jacket, and Felicity gags, praying she doesn't lose what's left of her lunch all over her shoes. Diggle tries his best to be comforting, but it's not his strong suit. "He's survived worse," he assures her, but she doesn't feel so confident about it.

"Press here," is his next command after he places his an impressively thick piece of gauze over the wound. She does as he asks immediately, watching the blood soak through the gauze, and she has to swallow the rising bile in her throat. To say the situation isn't good is an understatement, but she isn't sure what else to do.

Diggle frees her from her task, and, probably noticing how green she is, asks her to watch the heart monitor he's connected to the Arrow. The numbers aren't giving her much hope. Part of her wants to cry, scream, or rage about the situation, but she knows it simply isn't the time. Later, she thinks. She'll do one of those—perhaps all of them—after this nightmare is over and the Arrow feels well enough to haunt her window again.

Abruptly, a long, shrill sound comes from the heart monitor, and she jumps when a clear, typed zero sits where the pulse rate is, blood pressure dropping drastically. She turns to Diggle immediately, who is already removing the defibrillator paddles from the cart. "Do you know how to use those?" Felicity blurts, and his expression makes it obvious for her.

"We're about to find out," he says, and then the charge sounds. He presses the paddles against the Arrow's chest, and they both expect to see some sort of violent reaction to the charge, but nothing comes. Diggle drops a paddle to put a hand to his forehead, but Felicity senses victory.

"I heard the charge go through," she mutters to herself, finding it easier to work when she's talking to herself. Examining the front of the machine, she adds, "Now I need a screwdriver." Diggle hands her one, and she pries the front of the machine open and makes a few adjustments to the wires, muttering to herself about the circuitry all the while. "Okay," she calls clearly to Diggle, "try it again."

He does, and this time the charge clears, and Felicity doesn't know who jumps worse at the action—her or the Arrow. It doesn't work, but the second charge manages to do the trick, and her and Diggle both breathe a collective sigh of relief. This was too close, and she realizes that, somewhere along the line, an errant tear has made its way out. She wipes at it before Diggle notices, though it's probably evident in the lines in her mascara. Hopefully he'll attribute it to perspiration or the way she's been wiping at her eyes all night.

He looks up at her with what she thinks might be new respect. "What the hell did you _do?_ " he asks, looking at her as though she just rewrote part of the universe or something equally as impossible.

She smiles a little, even under the grim circumstances, and offers him a small shrug. "I built my first computer from scratch when I was seven," she replies, her voice a little too high and frantic with nerves. "Her name is Essie, and she still works." She flushes as Diggle raises an eyebrow. "I may have strayed from the point, which is that wires are wires. I've built a lot of computers since then, and they all have the same wiring as this thing." She motions to the defibrillator, afraid to touch it in case it falls apart.

Diggle studies her a long moment, with those dark eyes making her feel like maybe he's reading her every movement. Suddenly she wonders how the Arrow works with him—the man is a stifling presence for someone so quiet. "When he first said you were working with him," he says slowly, "I thought it was an unnecessary risk of your life." He frowns as he looks at the other man on the table. "He's good at that—has a knack for getting people hurt because he's too reckless and desperate to leave them well enough alone."

He crosses his arms, leaning back against the computer desk. "But now I understand why he depends on you." He motions to the table, where the Arrow lay. "I mean, look at you—you've never done field medicine before in your life, but you're perfectly willing to get your hands dirty if that means you can save him."

Felicity looks down at her hands, and the blood coating her fingers makes her think that maybe that statement wasn't so metaphorical. She bites her lip before starting the story. "The night I met him, I could have turned him in, you know," she starts quietly, and Diggle's head snaps up, eyes boring into hers. "But I didn't—something I didn't understand at the time. But now I do."

She hesitates, and Diggle offers her the desk chair. She walks over to it and sits down gratefully, kicking off her panda flats in the floor. "I've been around a lot of different people—some good, some bad, but most somewhere in between. I've learned how to read them, how to come to snap judgments that are usually right."

Her eyes land on the Arrow, and she says more to him than Diggle, "And I was wrong. I came to the wrong conclusion, but, for some reason, I allowed him the benefit of the doubt. I decided to take a leap of faith for no reason whatsoever." She bites her lip, staring down at her hands. "I'm glad I did. Because I understand what he's trying to do in this city, even if I didn't agree with the way he was doing it—even if I _still_ don't like the killing and the violence."

She looks up at Diggle again. "Bad things with good results. If there's some sort of cosmic balance sheet, I'd like to imagine that we're helping to sway it toward good. If not, well, I guess the road to Hell _is_ paved with good intentions." She chuckles despite the situation and her words. "But I guess it doesn't matter now—I can't imagine my life any other way."

Diggle watches her with that stoic expression, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I can't speak for you, Felicity, but he's been a better person since he's known you." He hesitates before saying finally, "I came to the wrong conclusion at first, too, but, like you, I chose to join him anyway. He's fighting a war against the criminals in this town, and he's never truly fought a war before. He doesn't understand how it eats away at you—how that struggle was _already_ starting to chip away at him when we met."

He puts his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "It wasn't me who changed that—it was _you_ , Felicity. He's gone from killer to almost heroic because he listens to you when he won't listen to anyone else." He hesitates one last time before turning to look at his friend and partner on the table. "And, no matter what happens here tonight—or on any _other_ night—I think you deserve to know that." He snorts. "Not that he'd probably _want_ you to know it, but you should nonetheless."

She snorts, too, rolling her eyes. "I'm just an IT girl," she answers. "It's not me who's important to this city—it's _him_. He's the hero, and maybe he asks me for help from time to time, but all of the good in this city recently is because of _him_ , not me."

"For the sake of argument," he answers, studying her again, "let's say you're right. Let's say he's the one doing the good in this city—that you and I have nothing to do with his crimefighting." He's adamant now about this, and Felicity thinks she might be about to lose an argument. "Even if that's true, do you know what the Arrow was before he came to you with that busted laptop? He wasn't a hero—he was a _killer_. He took lives before asking questions, and there was nothing separating him from the criminals he went after. But it's only since you've been helping him that he's become something resembling heroic." He chuckles. "Don't sell yourself short, Felicity—I think you've taken a killer and turned him into a hero."

Part of her is almost glad to hear the heart monitor go off again, the machine screaming at them to take action. It pulls her from her chair, bare feet plodding along the cold floor. Diggle immediately goes for the paddles, but Felicity thinks she sees their problem. "Wait!" she calls as she looks at the lead at the lower, right side of his abdomen.

She fiddles with it, slides the wire back into place, her fingers lingering over the Chinese column of characters tattooed into his skin. Her eyes, however, focus on the angry scars across his chest, abdomen, and shoulders—basically anywhere skin is exposed—and she wonders the same thing she always does: _How could any human being_ do _this to another?_

In the meantime, the beeping has stopped, and Diggle looks at her, expectant of an explanation. She shrugs, pointing to the lousy state of the heart monitor. "One of the leads came loose."

It earns a rare groan of frustration from him, a single moment where she sees how he's truly feeling: terrified for his friend and frustrated with his lack of control over the situation. "I swear, I'd rather see him jumping off rooftops and taking ridiculous risks than this!" he exclaims, causing Felicity to jump a little.

She snorts. "Are you kidding me? I was there when he raided Vanch's house, and I was terrified out my _wits_." She frowns. "Give me that over _this_ any day."

 

* * *

 

Oliver awakens in a fog, stirring slightly. He tries to focus through it, tries to determine where he is and what's happened. The first thing he remembers is Felicity's car, and he realizes it's also the last thing he remembers. He'd been shot, and he'd waited for her in her car because of what happened.

Suddenly, he breaks through the fog, aware of many things. A sharp pain, agonizing even under the haze afforded to him by the morphine, shoots through his shoulder, and he guesses that it's from the bullet wound from earlier. Truthfully, he's surprised he lived. But it's the _other_ shoulder that he doesn't understand; something sits on top of it, almost pinning it to the table.

Slowly, Oliver opens his eyes, and he can make out the blurred outline of the desk and his practice equipment before it shifts into focus. The patch over his wound, he notices, has been bled through, its white surface already red. It's definitely going to be slow to heal.

Diggle slides into his view, and Oliver realizes his vision is still partially obstructed by his mask and hood. He'd figured that they'd remove it, and he was almost hoping the secret was out; now he thinks it would be more of a relief to be able to tell her the truth. But he doesn't to tell her himself, if only because he knows she'll be hurt by the deception.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Diggle says with a small smile, the one that lets him know it was another close one. He presses the button on Oliver's voice synthesizer to turn it on. "Just in case you want to talk." Oliver opens his mouth, but Diggle cuts him off. "Before you ask, Felicity doesn't know—didn't want me to tell her." His hand falls on Oliver's arm. "I'm going out to her car to get your bow and quiver. Rest here a minute and I'll help you sit up when I get back." And then he's gone, disappearing out the second entrance Oliver told Felicity to use.

He tries to do that, but then he remembers the not-uncomfortable weight on his other shoulder, and, curious, he twists his head around to the other side to see what has him pinned. A smile plays at his lips as soon as he sees the familiar blonde hair sprawled across his arm. Her head rests firmly on his shoulder, arms thrown as if she'd been sitting with him and simply fell asleep. Her glasses lay beside her, the elastic from her hair in between their earpieces. Oliver thinks she looks peaceful, even if the circles under her eyes look darker than before.

Trying not to wake her, he uses his opposite arm without thinking, and then has to choke back a groan when the pain shoots through him again. This time he makes slow, easy movements, and he finds the pain tolerable. Gently, he cups his hand under her head, slowly laying her on the table and pleased he hasn't disturbed her much-needed sleep. He's been disturbing it far too much lately, and he can tell the trauma of being so much to him—as both Oliver and the Arrow—is taking its toll on her. He knows that, but still he can't let her go; he needs her far too much—more than he wants to admit.

Taking a deep breath, he slides up on his elbows, trying to sit up. He puts weight on his arm, and this time he can't stop the groan that leaves him. He thinks he might have opened up the stitches on top of that, judging by the way it feels like something has ripped.

Felicity sits up instantly, her eyes wide and unfocused. She grabs her glasses and slides them onto her face, blinking twice as her eyes try to focus. She frowns at Oliver, and he does _not_ like that look when it's aimed at him. "Seriously?" she asks him, her tone frustrated.

She sighs deeply before pulling his left arm over his shoulder and her arm behind his back, helping him into a sitting position. "Couldn't you—I don't know— _wait_ for me before trying to do this? You probably ripped out your stitches—it took _forever_ to close that damn thing." She narrows her eyes, and he feels a little guilty for upsetting her. "If you wanted to sit up, you should have let me help you."

"I didn't want to wake you," he murmurs as she helps him turn to let his feet swing from the gurney. She rolls her eyes in response, but the small smile she tries to hide lets him know she isn't angry.

Felicity takes a moment to pull his hood further over his head, but then she pushes the left side of the open jacket aside, fingers deftly moving over the wound to inspect it. It's only then that he notices her fingers are already red, covered in dried blood. _His_ blood.

She helped patch him up.

It's a startling, sobering thought. He only meant for her to take him to Diggle; Oliver didn't realize that, by enlisting her help, he'd be asking her to do something so very out of her comfort zone. He doubts she had any experience with wounds so serious. Part of him feels guilty, not because he thinks she was terrified (he knows better), but because he feels like he's _corrupted_ her somehow, forced her into some bleak, gritty part of his world.

She peels away the gauze with nimble fingers, more delicate than either he or Diggle would ever be. He barely feels it when Felicity touches at the stitches with a fingernail, poking and prodding at them, her expression grim all the while, as if she's expecting the worst. "I think they might have torn a little," she says finally, "but they're still in." She frowns at him. "Take it easy on the heroics for a while, okay?"

He can't fight the smile on his face; only _Felicity_ would call their work "heroic." Oliver knows he's nothing near hero material, but maybe he likes the thought that she sees him as one a little too much. He lets her seal the bandage back around the wound, again so careful and meticulous. She reaches for something else, but he doesn't let her, instead taking her hands in his own.

He studies them a moment, ignoring the way her eyes widen in surprise when he snatches those long fingers out of the air. He studies them for perhaps the first time, the way her turquoise fingernail polish is chipped, worn away at the ends as though she's been nervously chewing on them. Dried blood covers the pads of her fingers, the tips, sinks into her cuticles.

Finally, he looks up at her, not surprised to find her blushing again. "Thank you, Felicity," he says quietly, and he hopes she understands that he's not just thanking her for the rescue or for saving his life.

If anything, it makes her blush darken, and, when he releases her hands, she uses them to zip his jacket back up, breaking eye contact. "You're welcome," she answers quietly. Finally, she looks up. "I'm just glad—" She breaks off, taking a moment to look away before looking back at him. "I'm just glad you're all right."

He chuckles. "I guess I survived again," Oliver agrees easily. He's had too many near-death experiences, so the rush that accompanies survival doesn't seem to affect him near as much anymore. "Cool."

He expects Felicity to smile, maybe even to laugh, but he does _not_ expect her expression to turn dark as a thundercloud. "'Cool'?" she repeats, her voice an octave higher. He was right; that's definitely anger. "There was _nothing_ cool about tonight." Her voice turns scathing, a new tone entering it as she continues. "Unless you count the part where you were shot by _Moira Queen_ —I guess _that_ could have been cool. Or the part where you passed out in the backseat of my car. Possibly even when Diggle tied off an artery several inches from your heart to keep you from bleeding out." She pokes him in the chest, always mindful to avoid said injury.

"No, it was when your heart rate dropped and we had to use the damn _defibrillator_ on you." She pokes him again with her index finger. "You don't _get_ to be cavalier about this." She points to herself now. "Three times tonight I thought you weren't going to make it—three times! Your heart stopped, and _both_ of us thought you were _dead_." She chokes on the word as if it's simply too painful to say, and he notices the dark spot under her eye smear. She turns away before wiping at it, flustered. "Forgive me if I'm not laughing," she says after a long moment, anger abated.

He scrambles to his feet, even though it sends another burst of agony through her shoulder as he pushes off with his hands. Oliver swallows, feeling more like a monster than he ever has before. He didn't expect that her emotions for him ran so deep, that she'd cry over the hooded vigilante that makes so much trouble for her. After all, when he'd—foolishly—tried to kiss her, she'd turned him down. And when she'd made that comment calling herself a fool, he'd thought that maybe she liked the allure of flirting with him.

But to think that she would mourn even the _idea_ of losing him is a ridiculous, dangerous thought that fills him with something that feels almost like hope.

He places his hand on her shoulder, turns her to face him. She won't look at him, so he turns her head up. His gloved hand curves up to her cheek, and he gently brushes his thumb under her eye. She closes her eyes, and he's surprised when the dark circles under her eyes smear. Though she may need all the rest he's been robbing her of, Oliver also thinks that might be eyeliner or mascara with multiple tracks through it. There are so many things he wants to say, but only two words come out: "I'm sorry."

Her eyes fly open immediately, and he supposes she recognizes that he's needed to say it so many times before. It feels like weakness most of the time, admitting he's wrong, but not now.

She sighs deeply, then wraps her arms around his waist, always careful to avoid touching the wound. He hesitates for a moment, not wanting to screw this up, but then finally wraps his arms around her, his chin resting on her head. "Don't ever do that to me again," she demands with a soft voice muffled by his jacket.

"I'll do my best," he answers, giving her the only promise he can. She seems in no hurry to leave the embrace, and, truth be told, neither is Oliver.

There's just something comforting about it for him, even if he knows Felicity is the one who needs comforting instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Sugar, We're Goin Down" - Fall Out Boy  
> "Hallelujah" - Jeff Buckley  
> "My Last Breath" - Evanescence  
> "Monsoon" - Tokio Hotel  
> "Lie to Me" - Sara Bareilles  
> "Howling" - Abingdon Boys School  
> “I Wanna Be With You” - Mandy Moore
> 
> **Also, friendly reminder about side story #7, up Monday/Tuesday-ish. ;)**


	26. Aesthetic Repair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a confession, and Felicity isn't sure she can handle the fallout. Oliver isn't as worried--it's almost like he _knew_ she was working with the Arrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/7sHRt2EpYBHIZ41jLoyrMl).
> 
> This chapter is a little slower and lighter, but I think everyone probably needs an emotional break after that last one. :) And consider yourselves warned: this is going to be the last time you breathe for _several_ more chapters. Things are going to go down pretty quickly when we hit 1.15 Dodger, so this is your warning. ;) I hope you enjoy it! :D Thanks in advance for being awesome enough to stop by and read, comment, and/or review.

Still in her pajamas at noon, Felicity feels very decadent, considering it's a Friday. Because she thought it was the best option, she called in sick at work, then nestled herself back in bed for a few more hours' sleep. Refusing to sleep any later than noon and waste her rare day off, she decides to get up and finish Oliver's laptop, the one still sitting in pieces on her desk.

Barry is already up and dressed by this point, and she takes a few hesitant steps forward when she sees him in the kitchen. That's never a good idea; Barry's cooking is typically only edible when he's using the microwave. "Why are you destroying my poor kitchen?" she asks, her voice raspy with too many hours of sleep. "I'm pretty sure your cooking counts as cruel and unusual punishment."

He offers her a withering glance, but there's a smile hiding somewhere underneath. "I'm not cooking," he answers, moving away from the stove to show a bag from one of her favorite breakfast restaurants. "I can't ever get enough of this place, and I wanted to eat here just once before I head back to Central City." He frowns. "I'd like to point out that it's _your_ fault I'm here, and that you owe me ten dollars for breakfast."

She rolls her eyes, smiling. "You know I'm good for it," is her response before pulling her food out of it, going back to the couch to start back on Oliver's poor, mistreated laptop. She's surprised when he doesn't follow, instead swiping the bag from the counter after putting his coat back on. "You're not staying?" she asks, surprised.

"No, sorry," is his answer. "They need me back at STAR Labs as soon as possible, so I basically switched my hours today." He frowns. "I guess I'm on graveyard, since I'll get off at two a.m."

She knows how much he hates the late-night shifts, so she frowns. "Sorry, Watson," she says quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner."

He shrugs, smiling. "Not your fault, Sherly," he answers with that huge, cheesy grin she's come to expect over all the years. "After all, you were doing noble deeds—saving a life and making moony-eyes over Starling's resident vigilante." She sticks her tongue out at him, and he chuckles. "Talk to you, soon, Sherly—I want to make sure you're not getting yourself into any trouble."

"I promise to keep you apprised of what your hero is doing," she answers dryly. "And I promise I won't take any insane risks. After that last time, I'm _not_ going into the field again anytime soon."

His eyes narrow at her, and she cringes. "You were in the field?" he asks. "Are you crazy? You could have gotten killed out there!" He crosses his arms, and she knows it's serious now; that's _serious face_ , and Felicity has never won an argument with him when he's wearing that expression. "I demand details."

Never before has she been so grateful to hear the knock at the door, and she looks at it in relief. Barry sighs. "Saved by the doorbell," he mutters as he moves to answer it for her, then turns. "We’ll finish this conversation later, though.”

She nods at the same time that Saphira starts charging from the spare bedroom to the door, tail wagging as she barks loudly. Barry looks between Felicity and the little shiba, frowning. "It's Oliver," Felicity explains, not looking up. "Saphira loves him for some reason. The Arrow feeds her treats to win her affection, but Oliver just shows up and she's excited." She shrugs at Barry's wide-eyed expression, and then he finally shakes his head, probably not even sure where to begin asking questions.

"Does your life ever seem surreal to you?" he asks finally, heading to the door, and she can't help but chuckle. _All the time_ is the answer she wants to give, but, before she can respond, she hears him say, "Hey, Oliver. Come on in—Felicity's in the den with computer-y things."

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asks, and she can hear the hesitance in his tone. "Because I can come back," he offers, but Felicity knows his heart isn't in it.

"Nope," Barry answers cheerfully, "unless you count the traditional foster-sibling-style bickering, but you probably wanted to avoid that, anyway." He does that awkward laugh that makes Felicity wince. "And I was just leaving, so you're not even interrupting that." Louder, he calls to Felicity, "Try not to get into any trouble, Sherly."

"I make no promises, Watson," she calls back, and then she hears the sound of the door shutting and she finishes with a screw on her computer, standing up as Oliver enters quietly. "I heard about your mom," she says quietly, and he runs a hand over his face—that special tell he has for freaking out.

Without a thought, she stands up to hug him, arms wrapping around his neck awkwardly, her elbow bumping against his shoulder. He tenses, and she frowns because she thought they were making progress on this; maybe he's worried about the almost-kiss incident, but that feels like lifetimes ago for her. Still, his arms wrap around her after a long moment, and he does that long, drawn-out sigh, so similar from the night Thea was in the hospital after her accident.

She releases him and takes her seat at the end of the couch, and he surprises her by sitting next to her. "That's why I'm here," he says finally. "I've been with Mom at the hospital this morning." When her eyes widen in concern, he adds, "She's fine—just a few scratches that needed stitches from all the glass breakage. She won't say it, but she's terrified—worried he'll come after her again." He frowns deeply, running another hand over his face. "I know my mother isn't exactly innocent, but I'm not sure that means she deserved to be threatened at arrow point."

Felicity can't stop the nagging feeling in the back of her mind. Of the many things she expected when she started working with the Arrow, the guilt is the least of them. But the remorse claws at her, and she's never been good with guilt. She bites her lip, not wanting to add to his stress, but, at the same time, needing to make the confession. "After I showed you the book," she says slowly, quietly, "I showed it to the Arrow." His eyes snap to hers, his brow furrowing. "He saved me from that fire at Verdant," she continues, choosing her words carefully, "and I felt like I owed him one. So I decided to reach out about the book—to see if I could find more answers." She looks at Oliver, taking a moment to bite her lip to keep from begging his forgiveness. "I had to tell him how I found it, but I _swear_ to you, Oliver, I wouldn't have given it to him if I'd known how this was going to end." She looks away. "I'm so sorry, Oliver."

She expects him to leave then—maybe even yell a little. But what happens is almost worse in some ways, his hand catching the side of her face, tilting it back toward him. "Hey," he says gently, "this is _not_ your fault." His other hand reaches out for one of hers, squeezing it, and she realizes he's not just humoring her—he actually means every word of it. "You were trying to help, and you trusted the wrong person. This is on the Vigilante, not you, Felicity." He hesitates before saying, "But I think that you should leave him alone." He words it carefully, somehow knowing that the wrong word could lead to an argument. "He's wanted by the police and a whole host of bad people. Someone's going to capture the Vigilante eventually, and I don't want him to drag you down with him."

She bites her lip, shaking her head. "He's not always like that," she disagrees in a quiet but firm voice. "But I'll be more careful in the future."

He lets the conversation go because he probably knows it's the best offer he's going to get. He offers her a hesitant smile before changing the subject. "So," he says slowly, "you took a day off, and Starling City is still standing." He offers a hesitant smile, but it grows when she chuckles.

She points at him with the screwdriver in her hand. "Well, the day's not out yet," she quips, earning a chuckle from him. "And, if it _does_ become an oversized parking lot because of robot wars or other disastrous events, it's on _you_ for convincing me, Mr. Queen." She doesn't usually tease him so much—it's too much like flirting—and she hopes he can take it.

"Well, Miss Smoak," he answers, taking the bait with surprising ease, "if a robot war breaks out today, I promise to take full credit for it." He motions to her attire, his eyes lingering a little too long on the Arrow’s shirt from last night, even though she had the good sense to put a white camisole on underneath it. Then she flushes as she realizes which pants she has on—covered in fluffy cartoon alpacas in white, black, and brown. "And I'll pay for the destruction of any llama-related sleepwear."

She shoots him a withering look, biting back a smile. "First of all," she starts, trying to maintain some façade of seriousness, "these lovely cartoon animals are _alpacas_ , not llamas, though it's an easy mistake to make. Alpacas are woolly. And they orgle—don’t ask." He chuckles, and she bites back a smile, trying to pretend to be serious. "Secondly, your mockery of robot attack is duly noted—but we'll see who's laughing when giant robots use this city as their wrestling arena." She crosses her arms. "Finally, you may find yourself in financial ruin if a robot war breaks out, so don't make any promises you can't keep."

"Thank you," he says abruptly, for no reason whatsoever. She arches an eyebrow in confusion, but he doesn’t clarify. It takes her a moment, but she understands that it’s meant to thank her for pulling his mind away from this business with his mother and the Arrow—for making him laugh, in spite of the situation.

She starts to answer, but then decides that their communication has never been about words, and it shouldn’t be now. Instead, she reaches out to him, turning his hand over and lacing her fingers through his. He stares down at their hands on his thigh, offering her a rare smile. He squeezes her hand once before pulling it away, reaching out to cup her face. “I’m glad you’ve been able to rest today,” he says quietly. “You’ve been running on fumes for weeks.” He motions to his laptop, laid out in front of her. “You can work on that next week, if you want—I’m in no hurry.”

She arches an eyebrow. “So I’ve been told,” she answers. “But I’ve slept all day—doing this makes me feel productive.” She studies it for a moment. “Besides, this isn’t work to me—this is _fun_.” She bites her lip as his eyes tighten in amusement. “Yeah, I’m a nerd—thanks for not rubbing my nose in it.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but his phone demands his attention instead. He checks it, frowning as he reads a text on it. “I have to go,” he says finally. “They’re releasing my mother, and I think I should be there, since Thea had to work.”

She waves a hand. “You don’t have to explain that to me, Oliver,” she answers. “Your mom has been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours—I think you _should_ be there.” She taps the casing on his laptop. “I should have this finished in a few hours—provided that my three favorite starship captains don’t start calling my name.” His expression is a question, and she answers it. “Solo, Picard, and Harkness.” She shakes her head at his blank look. “I find it incredibly sad that you don’t know _any_ of those. We’ll have to complete your sci-fi education.”

He chuckles, putting his hand on her shoulder once before moving toward the door. “Well, I hope to see you again soon, Felicity,” he offers with a smile, leaving her to stare after him.

Because, really, there’s _no way_ he meant it the way he said it.

 

* * *

 

Lance's eyes narrow in confusion as he sees the little Mini Cooper parked over in one corner in front of the house, and he frowns at it. He doesn't think the Queens own anything like that, and he doesn't want any distractions when taking Moira Queen’s statement. But then he sees a familiar blonde ponytail and it all suddenly becomes painstakingly clear.

Felicity pulls out a silver, flat surface—a laptop of some sort, Lance supposes—and slips it under her arm, locking her car behind her. She pulls up short when she sees him, brows furrowing in confusion before she finally breaks into a wide smile that makes him nervous. "Hello, Detective," she says easily as she meets him at the door, knocking on it quietly.

"Miss Smoak," he answers, not exactly prepared for her cheery disposition today. Every time they meet, it seems like they match wits, and, well, Lance is tired of coming up short. Sometimes he thinks _she_ might be the mastermind behind the Hood, and that, maybe, the guy parading around in green tights with a bow is just a dumb brute. But, he dismisses that on the grounds that Felicity Smoak would _never_ team up with a dumb brute. "I'm surprised to see you here and not with your boyfriend," he adds, remembering last night's incidents, the ones that dragged him here anyway. "I thought you'd be taking care of him—the spray we found at Queen Consolidated was arterial."

She offers him a secretive smile, though he finds it interesting that her cheeks heat a little at the mention of a boyfriend. "I think he'll live to put arrows in more bad guys," she answers flippantly, even though the smile is gone from her eyes. "And we're not a thing." She does an awkward hand motion with her free hand, flashing emerald green fingernails that Lance knows better than to call a coincidence. "I mean, we aren't _together_ or anything."

She uses the knocker this time on the door, then resting her hand on the back of her neck and then smoothing down her black skirt that's _maybe_ a little too short. Then she balls her hand into a fist and runs it down her skirt again, before switching the laptop to the opposite arm. She notices his observations and explains them with, "This place always makes me nervous—like I should present my pedigree at the gate before daring to drive onto this property."

He frowns, surprised. He hasn't known Felicity to get nervous since he's known her—even when he's glaring her down and asking questions about her affiliations. And they both know she's not a shrinking violet if she's working for the Hood. "I thought you'd be used to it by now," he responds.

She shakes her head. "I've only been here twice. And the _last_ time I was here, you shot an assassin who was about to kill me," she answers, surprisingly emotionless for the statement she just made. But, then again, she works with the Hood, and she's probably seen her share of carnage—especially if she was present for Laurel's rescue like he suspects. "I know it's silly, but I'm not exactly in a hurry to go back."

The door opens then, and the maid beams as soon as she sees Felicity. Lance can't help but wonder if she knows what kind of effect she has on people. "Welcome, Miss Smoak," she says in a Russian accent. "Mister Oliver is expecting you." She turns to Lance, and he simply flashes his badge to earn his own entry.

"Thanks," the blonde answers as she follows the maid in, stopping abruptly. "I'm sorry, I never caught your name the last time."

The maid stops, too, surprised but polite as always. "My name is Raisa, Miss Smoak," she answers in that thick Russian accent, watching her for a moment."

Felicity makes a noise in the back of her throat. "Well, Raisa, you don't have to call me 'Miss Smoak.' It makes me want to look and see if my mother is here." She makes a face. "And, trust me, if you knew my mother, you'd be just as terrified as I am by that thought. So, please, call me Felicity."

Raisa offers a tentative smile. "Of course, Miss Felicity," she answers. "Mister Oliver asked me to make sure you were comfortable in foyer."

Felicity makes a face, and Lance knows exactly why: she isn't happy with the title attached to it, but seems to know that's all she's going to get. She and Lance both continue following the little woman. "I don't know why Oliver is expecting me, though," she continues, as thought it was her intended conversation all along. "I told him I wasn't sure if I'd finish this today. I'm easily distracted by my television, especially when I have a day off. I guess that's why I don't get many days off."

Raisa seems taken with her babbling, nodding along with a smile. "Mister Oliver and Mrs. Queen will be down soon," she states, and Felicity sits on the couch with the computer across her lap, back straight.

"Thank you, Raisa," she calls behind her, then looks to Detective Lance. "So, you're here to talk to Mrs. Queen about the thing at QC last night?" she asks, eyes narrowing in confusion. "I thought you would have already done that." He bristles immediately—because he has _enough_ people telling him how to do his job—but she holds her hands out. "I didn't mean it like that—I just thought there was something about the first twenty-four hours being crucial to an investigation." She frowns, shaking her head. "Clearly my small talk skills are in need of some serious work."

He turns away so she doesn't see the corner of his mouth turn up—he doesn't need the girl to think he's gone _soft_ or anything. "The Queens are a special case," he answers dryly, repeating the same thing his bosses have been telling him.

She puts her elbow on the laptop, her jaw landing on her hand. "So, basically, your bosses know where their political bread is buttered," she translates, and Lance _can't_ hide the smile this time. "But, still," she continues casually, "arterial spray means you have blood evidence, right?"

The Queen kid walks into the room then, tilting his head as he thinks about what they've just said. "Detective, you're here to talk to my mother?" he asks politely enough, but something about the kid's demeanor just always seems to scream smart ass. "If you have blood evidence, that means you can find him, doesn't it?"

Suddenly Lance feels a little more sour than usual, the words he says leaving a bad taste in his mouth: "There was a screw-up at the lab. Some kid entered the wrong numbers on an evidence disposal form, and it was destroyed first thing this morning—before we realized what had happened."

"That's a shame," Felicity says quickly—maybe a little _too_ quickly. Then he realizes she's a computer genius who clearly needs a rush of excitement every now and again if she's messing around with the Hood. And he can't stop himself from wondering how easy it would be for her to hack a police server and create a little chaos in their system.

Queen makes a noise of agreement, then turns to Felicity as though Lance doesn't exist. He flashes her a smile. "I see you didn't get distracted by your three favorite captains," he greets her, raising an eyebrow.

She grimaces. "Well, I'm not going to lie," she responds, standing. "I did get distracted by my favorite computer nerd, but I promised myself that I couldn't watch the next episode until I finished fixing up your laptop. And Oliver, I _really_ need to see how Chuck and Sarah's date goes." She offers it to him. "And so I finished it."

Lance is surprised to hear Queen chuckle; the kid hasn't been too cheery since returning from that hellhole he spent not near enough time in, if you ask the detective. "I'm glad to know you did this out of the kindness of your heart," he quips as he takes the computer from her, and she blushes.

Her hands start flying as she speaks. "Well, I didn't mean it like that," she answers quickly, eyes widening. "I _did_ want to fix your laptop—I just needed a little incentive to get me going. If I didn't want to do it, you know I would have told you that. But I'm glad to help you with all of your computer-related needs." She bites her lip. "And I'm babbling. _Again_." She pokes him in the shoulder. "You should make me stop."

"I like listening to your babbles," he answers after a long moment, and Lance thinks the kid might actually _mean_ it for a change. Felicity has apparently come to the same conclusion, as Lance thinks the last thing he saw _that_ red came equipped with sirens, flashing lights, and a high-pressure hose.

Before she can respond, a new voice says, "Hey, Ollie, have you seen—" Thea cuts off immediately as she sees the pair of them, then rolls her eyes when she sees Lance. Little does she know the feeling is mutual. Then she motions between them. "Never mind—you're with Felicity. I could come galloping through the house on a unicorn, and you wouldn't notice."

Lance can't help but agree with the youngest Queen's assessment, though it goes against everything he believes in. Felicity murmurs a quick goodbye, but Oliver catches her by the arm. "Felicity?" he asks quietly. "Thank you." He comes off as sincere—perhaps too much so—and Lance didn't know the kid had it in him.

"I'll see you later," she calls again, before offering a wave to Thea. "Nice seeing you, Thea—sorry I have to go." With a nod, she adds a pleasant, "Detective Lance."

With a certain amount of necessary seriousness, Lance responds, "You take care of yourself, Miss Smoak. There seem to be monsters out in this city now—especially at night." He adds the last phrase for good measure, knowing she'll pick up the cryptic undertone of the conversation.

"I'll be sure to check my closet twice, then," she answers with a partial smile, and, if she was anyone else, he'd be certain that it was a smart ass comment. As it is, they both know that their conversations about the Hood are made in subtle code, and it's her way of reminding him that she's careful. He just hopes she's careful _enough_.

After all, that display of puppy love with Queen doesn't exactly inspire confidence in her judgment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Happy Face" - Destiny's Child  
> "Brown Eyes" - Lady Gaga  
> "Mercy" - Duffy  
> "I'll Be Waiting" - Lenny Kravitz  
> "Hate Me" - Blue October  
> “Hanging by a Moment” - Lifehouse  
> "Secrets" - OneRepublic
> 
> **One more note:** if you _really_ want to know what an "orgle" is (and you don't heed Felicity's warning), go ahead and ask. I'll tell you, but you may regret the decision to ask. ;) I have to insert a little veterinary humor where I can. :P


	27. Network Setup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity's first true night at the lair meets with unexpected and interesting results. And a _lot_ of not-so-subtle flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/1rvyBJvuyaRNFGvZzpRCte). ("Stumble" isn't included because it isn't available on Spotify. "Drop Me in the Middle" is a different version than I have listed. Apparently my copy of _Unwritten_ is different from theirs.)
> 
> Okay, as I stated on Tumblr this morning, real life attacked with full force this week. I had a major assignment pop up unexpectedly, and then I was up until 1AM submitting my vet school application. And, well, you haven't lived until you've tried to verify a vet school application at 1AM. :P Anyway, because of all that jazz * _Chicago_ musical number plays in background* I didn't have the chance to queue this for mobile posting. Sorry if you guys thought I forgot about you—I swear I didn't! :) Now off to go take a well-deserved nap...
> 
> Anyway, thanks for your patience—and thanks in advance for reading and any reviews/comments. I hope you enjoy it! :D
> 
> Special thanks to MysteriousTwinkie/ihatepeas for her awesome help looking over the parts of this I wasn't quite sure about.
> 
> One last note, and then I swear I'm done. **There will be a new side story up Monday/Tuesday-ish.** It's going to be called "Listening Device Engineering," and it will help finish out this chapter by taking place between the break below. ;)

Felicity huffs as she loads the two desktop computers into the back of her car, trying to stop smiling. She _seriously_ shouldn’t be this excited about going down into a stuffy basement again, but it’s not about that. It’s about being a part of something, being officially considered part of the team. And, as someone who has rarely belonged to something in her life, she’s thrilled to watch the sky grow ever darker as the city settles into the night.

Because the night means the Arrow.

She can’t help but wonder when things changed—when the work she performs for the Arrow became her reality and identity, and when her job at Queen Consolidated became so dry and monotonous. She used to love it, but now there’s no challenge or thrill to it like there was before. But, then again, maybe it’s an unfair comparison to make—she’s not exactly asked to break into SCPD servers and help save vigilantes’ lives at QC. Maybe it’s for the best that she’s a mild-mannered IT girl by day.

True to his word, the Arrow left her alone yesterday, and she spent the day taking care of Oliver's laptop troubles. She used the morning to catch up on her shows and make sure that the computers for the lair were working properly. Then she and Barry met for their traditional Saturday lunch, even though there wasn't much to discuss since they had seen each other the day before. That was when the Arrow had called, asking her if she could come into the lair tonight, and she'd jumped at the opportunity to do so.

The sound of tires on concrete makes her look up, and the presence of a black, paneled van immediately makes her suspicious—there aren’t a lot of those around her apartment complex, and she can just _see_ masked men jumping out of it to kidnap someone. Then she shakes her head, clearing away the errant thought. She _really_ didn’t need to watch all those action movies with Barry; they do horrible things for her imagination.

It pulls up to block off her car, and she’s surprised to see a familiar face behind the wheel. Diggle waves at her from the driver’s seat, and she returns it as the passenger door slides open, and the Arrow hops out.

“You know this looks like an abduction scene straight out of an action movie, right?” she asks him, crossing her arms. “Should I try to scream, or should I just run impressively in high heels?” She frowns, looking at her shoes. “Technically, I’m in flats, but that’s the standard thing—the women always have to do everything in four-inch heels in an action movie.”

He chuckles before answering, “You have a police tail on your car. Digg noticed it when you were leaving the Queen mansion.” She can feel her eyes go wide, and his hand falls on her shoulder. “We can minimize the risk using the van and the bike, but it means we need to be careful until this blows over.” The corner of his mouth turns up. “And you _agreed_ to help us, so it’s not kidnapping.” Then he adds hesitantly, “Unless you’ve changed your mind.” She can’t help but be a little insulted by the question in his tone.

Felicity rolls her eyes because it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard—as if she’d bail _now_ , when she’s _finally_ part of the action. She responds by shoving one of the computer towers against his chest, his arms going up to catch it immediately. “I’m not backing out,” she assures him. “I’ve been with you for months now, and I’m not walking away when I get my first chance at being part of Team Arrow.” His eyes narrow, and she challenges it with a smile. “And, besides, you _need_ me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment—almost _too_ long. She’s about to drive into a babble about how she meant the collective “you” of him and Diggle, but he finally says, so quietly she almost misses it, “I can’t deny that.” He immediately turns to place the computer in the van, and, by the time he turns back, it’s as though he never said it.

“Well,” she adds with a huff, finally managing words, “ _I_ need _you_ , too.” That makes him smile, and she can’t handle the intensity of that expression, so she babbles on, “I mean, when do I get the opportunity to make specialized computers for this line of work? I’m going to have to put together some servers so that I can… _borrow_ some government software, but I can do that later—when we need them.”

He loads the second tower into the van as she speaks, then both monitors. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you,” is his answer, and she nods as she gathers the box of keyboards, mice, and cables, carrying it into the van as she enters with them. She stumbles on the step up, and he steadies her with a hand at her waist. It’s her intention to go back and close the hatch on her car, but the Arrow gets it instead. So, she slides herself onto the bench against one side wall, waiting to go.

He shuts the door before sitting down beside her, and the ride passes in relative silence, except for some mild conversation between her and Diggle. The Arrow is quiet, stoic as always. It’s the first time she really studies him because it’s the first time she has the opportunity. He sits with his elbows resting on his thighs, head down, though Felicity is pretty sure he’s not asleep. He could be a statue for all she knows, as quiet and unmoving as he is, and she thinks that’s an asset in his line of work.

Suddenly two eyes veiled by a dark mask meet hers, and she blinks twice in surprise. She turns her head away immediately, flushing as she’s caught staring, and fingers in cold leather gloves turn her attention reluctantly back toward him. He opens his mouth to say something, but it’s interrupted by the sudden surge of inertia when Diggle hits the brakes _hard_.

Because the seating runs in a line from front to back, she’s thrown sideways, into the Arrow. Her vision tilts, and then she feels something cold under the arm she’s ended up laying on. A hand splays across her stomach, and another lands on her arm. In the background, she can hear a monstrous crash, and she prays that they haven’t hit anyone.

“Sorry—idiot pulled out in front of me,” Diggle says, and it’s only then that Felicity realizes what happened. She’s somehow sideways across the Arrow’s lap, and his arms wrapped around her in an attempt to keep her from sliding across the van.

She sits up, blushing furiously, and he touches her shoulder after releasing her. “Are you all right?” he asks quietly. She means to answer, but something catches the corner of her eye, and she stands up as she realizes what the crashing sound was.

“My computers probably didn’t fare so well,” she grumbles, getting up and moving toward them. “I swear, if they’re hurt, we’re going after that guy.” Before she can continue that line of complaint, a bump in the road jars her, and two hands catch her just above the hips and pull her to him.

She can feel every inch of her body heat in embarrassment when she realizes she’s in his lap perpendicularly, with one of his hands at her knee and the other on her arm. He doesn’t seem to suffer the same problem, though, as he responds quietly in her ear, “I think that would be an abuse of power.” Even though he has the synthesizer, she can hear the humor in his tone. “And your computers can wait until we’ve stopped—they’re not worth you getting hurt.”

She pulls away to try and stand, but he pulls her to him again, this time her back pushing against his chest. His arms encircle her waist, and she cuts her eyes to the driver’s seat to make sure that Diggle isn’t watching this show. She’s red enough as it is, _without the added embarrassment of an audience. Fortunately, he's focused only on_ the road in front of him. “I’m not above holding you here until the van stops,” he threatens lowly, and Felicity thinks she probably shouldn’t like the idea as much as she does.

She turns to him. “Who’s abusing power now?” she retorts. His eyebrow raises in a challenge of, Try me, but she knows he isn’t joking. "Fine," she huffs after a long moment, and he lets her go, sliding her next to him. Her leg brushing against the cool leather of his pants, and she attempts to put some distance between them. He smiles, probably seeing himself as victorious, so she pokes him in the arm. "But only because I'd probably break something if I tried to move through this traffic. You haven't won anything yet."

The van pulls to a halt, and they all pitch in to start moving computers around, the Arrow and Diggle taking the stairs multiple times to help bring things in. Instead of doing grunt work, Felicity is the one crawling around under desks to connect wires and cables into the units, trying to minimize the cord clutter.

She huffs when she thinks everything is situated, and an emerald-clad hand appears in her line of vision. She takes it with a smile, and he helps her to her feet with a sturdy grip on her opposite elbow. She dusts off her jeans as she rises, thinking how nice it is to be in casual clothes for a change.

It surprises her yet again how comfortable she is with Starling City's Vigilante, the one that everyone equates with darkness and violence. Even though she's seen those sides of him, she doesn't feel that fear that others seem to regard him with. He might be a criminal in the eyes of the law, but one that preys on other criminals—which is why she's never understood why even _honest_ citizens seem to fear him. She hears her co-workers talk about him in hushed tones at work, as if calling his name evokes his wrath or some such nonsense. He only hunts those who prey on others.

Like Moira Queen.

The thought is errant and silly, but it throws on the brakes for her, and she walks away from the Arrow before he can see that hesitance on her face. It's a different, sobering thought. Felicity is certain the woman isn't an angel by any means, but she's still not sure she deserved to have an arrow pointed at her. Because it had gnawed at her after talking to Oliver yesterday, she had checked the police database this morning and read Mrs. Queen's statement. It very nearly undid Felicity, reading the words the transcript and hearing them in her voice. She'd apparently pleaded for her family, begged the Arrow not to take her from her children. Though Felicity knows that Thea and Oliver are grown now, she thinks they're both still dealing with the fallout of losing their father, and Felicity believes that they shouldn't have to deal with the fear of losing their mother, too.

It rolls around in her head as she sets up the computer system, watching as the Arrow talks to Diggle in low tones. Then they're squaring off on the mats, and she gets to see Starling City's Vigilante in action for the first time in her life as she waits for the setup files to complete.

Diggle has at least fifty pounds and a few inches on the Arrow, a military background, and experience in combat. But, despite the extra bulk, he still manages to be fast, taking swings with the metal poles that are lightning fast and creative, striking out while still managing to keep distance between the two of them. He's not just a trained fighter who uses his muscle to win; he's smart, and he uses that to his advantage in a fight.

He's no match for the Arrow.

The emerald archer isn't so refined, but it's because he fights to win. He matches Diggle's attacks for a while, but then he sees an opportunity and seizes it, lashing out quickly and efficiently before pulling back, only actively striking when he sees the opportunity. He's not just quick and smart about his attacks—he's _unforgiving_. Felicity knows the Arrow is holding back, but she can still hear the bar whistle through the air before it strikes home.

Between blows, she can hear the low murmur of conversation, and she wonders what they're talking about. A few subtle glances in her direction from Diggle makes her think she might be the topic, and she's a little curious to hear what the man would say about her. There's no way she can hear them over that distance, but he's clearly the one doing all the talking. He says something once more, and she sees the set of the Arrow's mouth turn down before he lands another blow that isn't as gentle as the last, smacking his arm with it— _hard_ , judging by the sound.

Her computer dings to indicate that her file transfer is complete, and she smiles before calling, "We're up and running, boys." Diggle mutters something else to the Arrow, and he lands one last blow before walking toward her, leaving his sparring partner to pick himself up off the ground. She frowns at him when he stands beside her. “That wasn’t very nice. You may want to save that energy for the next target.”

“We have one for tonight,” he answers, ignoring her comment, “but the next one is your choice.” It’s a surprising offer that makes her look up at him. “And this _is_ me saving energy.” He moves past her to pick up his bow and strap the quiver across his back. “His name is Ken Williams.” She immediately starts typing the name into her computer, pulling up records on him. “He ran a pyramid scheme, and people lost their homes—had their lives ruined.” He glances at her over his shoulder. “Have a new name for me when I get back. It doesn’t need to be from the list.”

She ignores him this time because of the page she pulls up for Ken Williams’ online dating profile. There are plenty of words to choose from, but the ones that catch her attention are _10-year-old son_ and _widowed father_. She knows he’s probably already up the stairs, but she pulls up the code window anyway, typing into it as fast as she can.

Fortunately, it’s only afterward that she hears the numbers click on the keypad, and he enters them again when the light doesn’t turn. She’s about to call out to him, but he’s faster. “Felicity!” he barks, and she jumps because that is _not_ the tone she’s used to him using with her. It’s a dark voice that he probably plans to use later tonight on Ken Williams.

She holds up her hands. “Before you ask, I _did_ override your locks, but just a little and it’s temporary,” she assures him, her voice an octave higher than normal. “I just pulled up some information on Williams I think you should look at.” He moves back toward her, and suddenly she wishes he’s an entire room away, his expression dark. “He has a ten-year-old son, and I will _not_ be an accessory to taking a father away from a little boy who has already lost his mother.”

The anger drains out of him immediately, his mouth turning down in confusion. “I don’t kill unless it’s the only option,” he says quietly, and she looks away because she already knew that. It was foolish to have doubts, but Moira Queen has been eating away at her mind recently—so has Oliver’s pain and her own guilt. “You know that.”

A hand tilts her head back toward him, and she’s surprised when he angles her head downward, instead of up. He’s crouched in front of her on the balls of his feet, his expression open as he looks up at her. “Felicity, what’s changed?” She bites her lip, shaking her head. He sighs, running a hand over his face. “If you want to go,” he says quietly, so low she can barely hear him, “I’ll take you home. You can walk away whenever you want.”

She shakes her head, eyes widening as she realizes this is the Arrow _pleading_ with her, begging her to stay—even as he says he’ll let her go. She knows he’s a man of his word, but that’s not what she wants. “I’m not walking away from this—we both know that.” He simply continues staring at her, waiting to hear what’s been bothering her. So she finally admits, “It was the thing with Moira Queen.” He tenses, but she continues because she needs to now. “Two days ago, she thought she was going to die— _Oliver and Thea_ thought she was going to die. They were terrified they were going to lose her just like they lost their father.” She bites her lip. “I don’t want that little boy to think his world is being ripped from him.”

His hand falls on hers, both draped over her thigh. “Felicity,” he says gently, “I promise you that he’ll return the money in time to tuck his son into bed—without knowing that his father ever met me.”

She shakes her head, frowning, because _of course_ he would uphold that promise. “I’m sorry,” she answers, feeling foolish for doubting him. “I knew better, but—”

He squeezes her hand to cut her off. “You have a lot on your mind,” he answers gracefully, “and this isn’t always easy to deal with. But if you ever need to talk to someone about it, you can talk to me.” She nods once, and he rises to full height, putting his hand on her shoulder once before moving it to remove the computer override. His voice turns dark as he says, “But don’t _ever_ override my locks again.”

“Or you’ll do what?” she hears herself ask, surprised by the challenge in her tone. And it terrifies her because maybe she’s flirting a little, and she doesn’t think taunting him is the best idea.

In a quick instant, he catches her chin in his hand, leaning in so close that she’s sure he’s going to kiss her. Felicity’s breath hitches as her eyes go wide, and his dark eyes study her face for a long moment. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he murmurs back with a smile.

Then he’s gone, heading up the stairs with his bow.

 

* * *

 

It’s only a little after five when Felicity hears the timid knock at her door, and she frowns.  Thankfully, she's home in time to meet whoever it is; she's been working fewer hours because of Arrow business, but he said he was waiting until next Friday’s gala to try to take the Dodger again, after Sunday’s failed mission. She frowns because she’s apparently going to need a dress for that now that Oliver has asked her; her closet isn’t equipped for charity auctions.

Then she realizes Saphira isn't jumping around, so it's not Oliver, and she's not expecting Barry anytime soon. Curious, she goes to her door, using the peephole to see who her visitor is. She opens the door immediately, though.

"Hey, Thea," she greets, surprise coloring her tone. She ushers her in, locking all five locks behind her. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what are you doing here? I thought you weren't going anywhere without Oliver as your chauffeur these days."

She shrugs. "It's not that far to walk from CNRI," she answers, which makes Felicity frown because it's _not_ a good neighborhood for walking two blocks—especially as it's starting to get dark. "I told Ollie one of my friends from school was picking me up," she admits. "Can you back me up? Because I really needed to talk to you—I found your address in the QC employee address book on Mom's desk."

Felicity frowns at the thought of having to deceive Oliver ( _again_ ), but she nods. "I'm driving you back, though," she answers. "You can say your friend cancelled and so you came to me for a ride home."

Thea hugs her abruptly around the waist, and Felicity's arms go around her after a moment. "Thank you _so much_ , Felicity," she answers, then pulls away to sit on the sofa. Saphira sniffs her warily, and Thea ignores the little dog. "I didn't tell anyone about it, but Laurel and I were at lunch today, and some asshat in a red hoodie decided to steal my purse." Felicity's eyes go wide as Thea pulls something out of her pocket. "Laurel helped me file a police report and everything, but we all know they won't catch the guy." She frowns. "And that was a _vintage Chanel_ , Felicity. I don't care if he stole my money or not—I just want the purse back." She holds up the item in her hand, holding it out to the blonde. "He snagged his wallet chain on the fence he hopped, and I was hoping that you could do some of your computer voodoo magic and find the stores that sell these."

Felicity studies it before pulling over the sleek black laptop she usually uses for Arrow business. "I can't promise anything," she says after a long moment, "but I can look." She bites her lip before adding, "Just as long as you tell everyone that you did the legwork to find it—some of this is, um, _legally ambiguous_." She tilts a hand. "We're kind of in a legal gray area."

Thea's eyes go round as saucers before she flashes that mischievous smile Felicity has learned to fear. "You have a little rebel in your soul," she says slowly, her voice high with excitement and surprise. "Felicity Smoak, I didn't know you had it in you." Felicity types in an algorithm in her code window, ignoring Thea until she shyly asks, "Is that why Lancelot gave you a hard time Friday?"

Felicity looks at her for a moment before turning back to her computer. "Lancelot?" she asks, and Thea shrugs. "I don't know what you're talking about," she mutters, but she thinks it's a little obvious it's a line. "I don't have a criminal record, Thea—juvenile or otherwise."

"Neither did Adam Hunt," she counters, crossing her arms. "But the police found the evidence of criminal activity in his accounts after the psycho archer—well, the _more_ psycho archer—killed him." She reaches over and pokes Felicity's knee. "Criminal records only mean they're dumb enough to get caught. And Lance hassled you, with that whole 'Starling's streets fill with monsters at night' thing. Kind of reminds me the way he talks to Ollie—like he's a criminal, but Lance can't pin anything on him." Her eyes narrow suddenly. "Wait, how did _you_ learn to do 'legally ambiguous' computer voodoo? More importantly, _why_ did you learn how to do this?"

Felicity bites her lip. "Let's just say that Barry's C in high school trigonometry was undeserved, so _someone_ generously righted that injustice in the system." She pulls up the results, and there are too many to go through. "Okay, for the ones that have computerized systems, I have a list of clients who purchased wallets with an eight-ball on the chain." She frowns. "It won't work if it was a gift, purchased in a non-computerized store, or paid for with cash, but it's something to narrow things down." She looks up over her screen at Thea. "What did your guy look like?"

"About my age," she answers slowly, really thinking about it. "White, dark hair, high cheekbones—kind of Abercrombie-looking." She pauses, only to hold up a hand as a new thought strikes her. "And wearing a red hoodie."

Felicity narrows the search parameters, then looks at the driver's license photos posted—the ones she can get to, anyway. Some haven't been scanned in yet, but she doubts the guy had a new wallet. Only one of them matches Thea's description, and Felicity turns the computer around so she can see it. "Oh, that's him," she agrees.

"You got lucky," Felicity says. "He bought the wallet and a pack of cigarettes, so they had to card him." She smiles. "Roy Harper," she reads, frowning. The name sounds familiar, but she can't quite place it. So she pulls up a search box. "His dad was caught for petty theft a few times—I think I remember this one. Because, yeah," she continues as she reads the article, "his son was in foster care for a while because both of his parents went to jail." She pulls up the other records now, and sure enough, Enid Nagorski is listed on the files. "Small world after all," she mutters, and, if Thea hears her, she doesn’t comment.

She prints the page, handing it to Thea. "You talked to one of the clerks on the phone—you don't remember their name, but they gave you this." She points a finger. "That’s your story. Are we clear?”

Thea nods, smiling. “Roxie was supposed to pick me up after work today, but she texted me and said she had to drive her dad back to his doctor’s appointment for his ACL tear.” She points a finger right back at Felicity, mocking her in a friendly way. “That’s _your_ story. Are we clear?”

Felicity smiles before gathering her keys. “Don’t worry, Thea,” she answers. “I can keep a secret.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> “Drop Me in the Middle” - Natasha Bedingfield feat. Estelle  
> “Feels Like Tonight” - Daughtry  
> “Close to You” - Neon Trees  
> "Who Knows" - Avril Lavigne  
> "The Reason" - Hoobastank  
> “Come Back to Me” - David Cook  
> “Stumble” - Natasha Bedingfield
> 
> Remember to start looking for the side story Monday/Tuesday-ish! ;)


	28. Item Tracking Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity goes on a date with Oliver, and it doesn't end as planned. But, then again, who plans for a psychotic jewel thief to interrupt their night out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for what I'm about to do to you all. ;)
> 
> I think that's the only real note I have right now, honestly. :P I just hope you all enjoy it, but, either way, thanks for reading, reviewing, and/or commenting. :)

Felicity very nearly jumps a foot in the air when the knock sounds at her door, somehow managing to avoid burning herself with her curling iron in the process. Even though she knows to expect Oliver, she didn’t think he’d be this early. A quick glance from the bathroom to her clock in the bedroom informs her that he’s right on time, and she wonders vaguely where the past two hours have gone.

Saphira leaves her feet, with her nose in the air, barking and wagging her tail. It’s all Felicity needs to know it’s Oliver at her door. “It’s open!” she calls from the bathroom, leaning out so that her voice will carry better. “I’m just trying to finish up, so I’ll be out in a minute. Feel free to have a seat.”

“You know,” he answers, presumably from the couch, “it’s not exactly a good idea to keep your door unlocked in this neighborhood. It doesn’t exactly seem safe.” Quieter, she hears him speaking to Saphira, and Felicity can picture the little dog happily curled in his lap, getting fur all over his suit.

“I knew you were coming, and I didn’t want you to wait for me,” she answers. “Knowing my bad timing, I’d probably be only half-dressed or something.” Then she flushes as she realizes the implications of that. “And we’re five seconds in, and my mouth is already starting.” She finishes the last curl, checks her makeup again, then moves to the full-length mirror in her room.

She’s not sure that gold is an appropriate color for a cocktail dress—especially with the sequins—but that’s what she gets by asking Thea for help. Felicity had nothing suitable in her closet, so she had called Thea for an emergency shopping trip. Somehow they’d ended up agreeing on the sleeveless number she’s wearing now, a tiny slit up one side. She decides to take a risk and wear her hair in long curls, but keeps them out of her face with gold clips studded with emeralds that she couldn’t resist. And it’s definitely time for contacts—especially since she’s _kind of_ working for the Arrow tonight, too.

Sighing, she grabs her bag, knowing she can’t stall much longer. Part of her wants to check the tracker she doesn’t even have yet, just to see if the Dodger has stolen the item. But that's ridiculous because the event hasn’t started yet, and she’s far too nervous to be doing this. Still, Felicity reminds herself that this is _exactly_ what she signed on for, and she should take a deep breath and handle it.

She expects Oliver to be on the couch, waiting as impatiently as all men do, but instead she finds him browsing through the bookshelves across the living room of her apartment, studying the spines carefully. For someone who said that the Queen family didn’t appreciate books, he seems to, judging by the way he runs his fingers across the spine of one book in particular. Her eyes widen in surprise at first, but then she smiles. “ _The Odyssey_ is one of my favorites,” she says quietly from behind him. “But then I’ve always been partial to the classics.”

He hesitates for a long moment before saying without looking at her, “It was one of the few things I actually read in college—when I wasn’t busy being kicked out of them.” Another moment of hesitation crosses his features. “It’s about a man trying to make his way back home—something I can relate to. ‘Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man.’” Finally he adds what’s on his mind: “That line saved two of us on that island one day.”

He gauges her expression carefully, as if curious to see what she’ll say next. They both know he’s not ready to expand upon that statement, since he was obviously alone when they found him. “That’s a good line,” she says finally, nodding slightly, “but my favorite has always been: ‘Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.’”

He turns back to her immediately, understanding the message she’s sending, but his expression changes as he looks at her for the first time that night. He blinks several times, and then his eyes fall over her, drinking in her appearance. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Are you ready, then?” he asks, carefully avoiding any praise for some reason she doesn’t understand. But, then again, she doesn’t need it; his expression is enough to tell her he’s very pleased with what he’s seeing.

She wraps one hand around the chain strap of the small purse on her shoulder, trying to brace herself. “Yeah,” she says, a little breathlessly. “But, small warning? I think my foot-in-mouth disease is already acting up tonight, so I apologize preemptively if I embarrass you in front of someone important.”

He offers her a hesitant smile, and she realizes he’s a little nervous, too. “The most important person in that room is going to be on my arm,” he answers, and her face bursts into flame immediately.

Still, she tries to play it carefully, turning it into something more lighthearted. She lifts an eyebrow at him, letting one corner of her mouth turn up. “Did you just drop a line on me?” she asks, a little incredulously. Because, really, she’s going to be looking for portals into alternate worlds if _Oliver Queen_ is trying to flirt with _her_.

He matches her tone and attitude instantly, only with a better smile. “I think that depends on if it worked,” he replies easily, and yes, he’s _definitely_ flirting with her. She thinks about pinching herself, but, if it’s a dream, she decides she doesn’t want to wake up from it. His eyes turn intense—the kind of intense that makes her think of the Arrow. “And it’s not a line when it’s true,” he corrects.

“Well, it was smooth, I’ll give you that,” she answers with part of a smile, “but it didn’t work.” She ushers him out of the apartment. “So, really, you succeeded in being cheesy instead of flirty.” He raises an eyebrow at her, and she ignores it to lock the door, only to find him waiting with that expression after she finishes. “But it’s okay,” she adds finally, “because you’re handsome and you’ve been on an island for five years.”

He gives her a withering look that they both know he doesn’t mean, and then he offers her his arm. She takes it without a moment’s hesitation, and they walk together without a word. One of the beautiful things about their friendship, she thinks, is that they can make the walk down several flights of stairs in silence and it’s not awkward—it’s pensive and reflective, full of things neither one knows how to say to the other.

She’s not surprised to find Diggle leaning casually against the towncar when they exit the building, and he opens the door for them immediately. “Miss Smoak,” he offers with a smile, and she and Oliver slide into the car.

“Mr. Diggle,” she replies right back with a smile, and, as she takes his hand to slide into the car, he slips her what she’s sure is an earpiece, judging by the size and shape. Yet another reason wearing her hair down was a good idea—she can properly mask the earpiece.

“I’ll set the bug in place,” he murmurs to her lowly, and she nods discreetly before making a motion like she’s touching her ear, instead inserting the earpiece.

“Holy cheese fries,” she says when she enters, looking around the spacious interior. For what is essentially the backseat of a car, there are a _lot_ of amenities, not limited to the bar over to one side. “I’m pretty sure that I could live in the back of one of these things.”

His only response is a low, breathy almost-laugh. There’s a long silence that stretches on between them, and she wonders for a moment what he’s thinking about. There are a lot of thoughts slipping around her own mind; she wonders about what he’s told her of the island, what happened to his friend (though she probably already knows the answer), how insane she is for building some sort of relationship between them that isn’t quite platonic. His share of baggage is almost too much, and she’s not sure he’ll ever be able to talk about the island to anyone.

She also knows it’s going to destroy him eventually, if he doesn’t.

Oliver’s hand on hers makes her snap out of her thoughts, and she’s surprised to find that the twenty-minute ride has somehow already passed. “We’re here,” he informs her quietly, but there’s something not quite right about his smile.

She’s not sure she should ask, but she does anyway, as he takes her hand and assists her up from the car. “What’s on your mind?” she asks carefully. “You look like there’s a lot going on upstairs.”

His smile falters ever so slightly, and she thinks that, under different circumstances, she wouldn’t have noticed its change. She slips her arm in his, and she rather likes the idea of being on his arm; there’s just something incredibly _safe_ about it. “At the risk of sounding cheesy,” he answers with a partial smile, “I’m glad you’re with me.”

She rolls her eyes as they enter the auction scene together, and suddenly the spacious room feels smaller than the elevator she hates to ride every day at work. She does _not_ fit in here, and she knows she never will. And it only makes it worse that she’s also partially spending the night looking for a jewel thief that likes to blow people’s heads off.

It must show on her face, somewhere under the calm façade she’s trying to cultivate, because Oliver asks her carefully, “Are you okay?” He shoots her a concerned glance before adding, “You’re quiet, and you’re _never_ quiet.”

She huffs loudly, slapping his arm. "I'm just, well, out of my element," she admits. "I really don't do the parties and things like this. I'm that girl whose friends convinced her to go to the party, so she brought a book and decided to read in the corner while everyone else gets wasted." She frowns. “I look like I’m trying to blend in, and I’m not succeeding.”

“I think you look beautiful,” he answers, his eyes a little too serious for such a casual statement. He hesitates. “And thank you for coming with me, even though this isn’t your scene.” He reaches across to pat the hand in the crook of his arm.

She waves her other hand casually, smiling. “That’s fine,” she assures him casually. “I had to make sure you didn’t die of boredom while you were here.” He smiles. “And what kind of friend would I be if I let you walk in on your own?” She shakes her head. “Well, silly question—we both know you could have found another date.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, and they both know he’s being modest, “but I asked you for a reason. And—” He stops abruptly, turning them the opposite direction so quick it makes Felicity’s head spin a little.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” she asks, staring at him. She looks back over her shoulder, frowning when she recognizes the woman leading the police squad as Detective Hall. “Is that the new detective working with Lance now? I think I heard she’s on the Dodger case—the jewel thief that likes to blow people’s heads off?”

Oliver winces. “Yes, it is,” he admits after a long moment. “McKenna is… an old friend of mine.” Felicity can’t help the frown that graces her face, and he presses on, “She used to party with Tommy and I before.” He hesitates, and Felicity thinks it has _nothing_ to do with McKenna this time. “We decided to catch up over dinner last night, and she asked me about the island.” She takes a deep breath for him, knowing how much that probably hurt. His expression completely shuts down and he says, “Let’s just say I’d rather take my chances with a deadly jewel thief.”

She doesn’t think he’s ready to talk about the island—especially not here—so she tries for something more casual and meaningless. “Well, you say that _now_ ,” she tries, “but we’ll see how you feel when the Dodger absconds with your family jewels.” He stops, pulling away to raise his eyebrows at her, and his smile is pure mischief. “Damn it, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m not making references to—” She stops because self-preservation kicks in—and there’s really no good way that sentence. Still, it makes him smile, so it must be worth _something_ to babble like an idiot. “That came out _really_ wrong, and I don’t think there’s any way I can fix it. Let’s just pretend I didn’t say that, okay?”

Felicity has never been so relieved to feel her phone buzz in her life. She knows that only means she's going to trade an awkward experience for an experience with a criminal, but suddenly it looks good to her. "It looks like they're starting to filter into the auction room," he says, watching the doorways. She can tell Oliver is on edge at the idea of walking into that crowded room, but he's trying to hide it.

"Yeah," she answers, then points to herself. "I'm just gonna go use the restroom," she somehow manages to lie with far too much ease. "I'll meet you in there in a few minutes?"

He nods, and she makes her way across to the display cases, simultaneously pulling out her phone to check the tracker. "Digg, the Dodger has taken the bait," she mutters into her comm, and she notices the Dodger is still at the display case. From a distance, she watches as the man pockets the piece Oliver donated, and it makes her mad a second time.

"It's just me and you, Felicity," Diggle answers. "The Arrow is here, but his synthesizer interferes with the comm system. Be careful, and, if anything goes wrong, let me know."

She ignores him this time, pulling up to the Dodger. "Hey," she snaps at him, "the Queen family donated those. If you want them, you have to bid."

The man only smiles at her, and it's not charming. In fact, it makes a chill run down her spine because he's kind of intimidating. "And are you going to stop me, love?" he answers in an English accent, a chuckle in his voice. Before she sees him go for it, he pulls some sort of cane. She expects him to knock her out with it, but he simply touches it to her neck.

The last thing she remembers is a jolt before everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

Oliver frowns because Felicity should have been back by now, but his concern is mostly because he knows she went for the jewels instead of the restroom. Part of him wants to call Digg, but he doesn't want to hinder the mission by distracting Diggle.

Sighing, he casually looks around his seat on the back row, wondering how long he'll have to be trapped in this auditorium with all these people. It's not something he's used to, and the idea of sitting this close to anyone immediately makes him tense.

So tense that he almost doesn't notice the woman sliding in next to him, and he fights back a grimace as McKenna Hall sits in the seat he reserved for Felicity. Now he hopes she doesn't come back until McKenna vacates it; otherwise, things will be _more_ awkward between the pair. “I’m surprised to find you here tonight,” she starts casually, but there’s ice under it, and they both know it’s from his outburst the previous night.

Part of him hates the idea of speaking to her after last night’s disaster, but at least it will keep his mind off of Felicity. Chatting up McKenna on the premise of old time’s sake had been a way for him to slip the bug in, and it would have been suspicious if he’d cancelled. Still, it was one of the worst dates of his life—and that’s saying something. “I had to put in an appearance for the Queen family,” he answers. “We donated a piece, so we were obligated, even though I probably won’t buy anything.” He motions to her. “I heard you were on this… Dodger case. I guess that means you’re working.” He throws her an insincere smile, acting like the _old_ Oliver. “Don’t you ever get a night off?”

“I had the night off last night,” she answers. “Which we both know because I decided to treat you like a suspect instead of a person.” She grimaces. “I was out of line, asking you about... that.” He takes it for the apology it’s meant to be, watching the way she hesitates to avoid the word _island_. “But you seem to rebound as quickly as always—I saw the girl on your arm tonight.”

He immediately speaks up for Felicity’s sake, not so worried about his own reputation. “Felicity is a friend,” he repeats for what feels like the millionth time. This time, though, it feels like a lie; they’re not exactly acting like friends anymore, not with the kiss she landed on his cheek—or the way he’s been trying to kiss her for _weeks_. “I invited her to join me earlier in the week.”

Her expression changes instantly, eyebrows knitting together in an expression that Oliver know to be trouble on both cops and women—meaning it sends some dread rushing through him. “Felicity?” she repeats. “Felicity Smoak?”

Oliver is surprised she knows the name; Felicity isn’t exactly popular in the club scene, and she’s never mentioned meeting the detective in person. “Yeah,” Oliver answers with a slight smile. “She helped me out with a computer problem a few months ago at QC, and we’ve been friends since.” It’s the truth, even if he’s left out the part about showing up on her fire escape as the Arrow and wanting to kiss her senseless.

McKenna’s expression goes dark. “Look,” she says slowly, “I don’t want to come off as jealous, but Lance has been my partner since we went after the Count.” She hesitates. “It’s an ongoing investigation, so I can’t say everything I want to. But the point is that Lance and I both think Felicity Smoak isn’t quite as innocent as she looks on paper.” She puts her hand on his shoulder, and he can’t stop himself from tensing. “Just be careful, okay?”

He’s saved from having to answer when his cell phone starts ringing, and he’s relieved when he sees it’s Diggle, probably calling to say everything has gone as planned. “Sorry,” he says quickly, sliding out of his seat and past her, “it’s one of my vendors for the club.”

When he’s sure he’s out of earshot, he asks, “Everything successful?”

Diggle doesn’t answer immediately, which gives Oliver pause—and sends another cold hand of dread clawing down his back. “The tracker is still active, but he’s gone,” Diggle answers, and he doesn’t sound like that’s all. When the silence stretches on, he continues, “He overpowered Felicity before I could get there.” A sigh crackles across the line as Oliver’s dread forms into something more like panic. “You’re gonna want to suit up for this.”

“I’m on my way,” is his response before slipping out the door. The first sense of panic fades away as rationality kicks in—if she were hurt, Diggle would have said so—but then something deeper and darker works its way to the surface, something he’s not used to feeling. He hasn’t truly been angry in a long time, but the Dodger might just have done enough to incite some of that pent-up wrath.

And, if Felicity _is_ hurt, Oliver is very certain that someone is going to die on the end of an arrow tonight.


	29. GPS Location Services

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dodger realizes what a mistake looks like: an angry vigilante whose hobbies include archery and protecting adorable blonde computer technicians. Huh, that's oddly specific.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/3EWqPknz5dnq4jWs5nyiWL).
> 
> I honestly think this might be my favorite chapter I've written for this fic, period. A lot of you aren't going to like the direction I've taken--you're going to be irritated with me for doing it--but I'm not sorry. I've done what I've set out to do, and I am 100% okay with what I've done. So, no matter what, thank you for reading. If you're still with me after this one, thank you again for being such a good sport. If you choose to leave a comment/review--good or bad--I thank you yet another time.
> 
> Also, I find it interesting that I wrote Chapters 28 and 29 about a month ago, yet they still have some 3.01 parallels. Huh. Either way, I think this might help get through some of those bad feels from 3.01 and 3.02. ;)

It takes Felicity a long moment to come to, and the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is the outline of a green hood. It takes a long moment before she realizes she's lying on some floor in an empty room, and she wonders how she made it here. Then she finds that her memory is somewhat blank for the past few hours.

The blurry outlines clear slowly until she’s finally looking at the Arrow, and he’s looking at her with concern that makes her wary instantly. She stares at him in confusion until she finally remembers what happens, and it comes back to her in bursts. Oliver in a black tie. _The Odyssey_. The auction. The horrible “family jewels” crack. The signal going live. Diggle talking in her ear.

_The Dodger_.

Dear God, she met the Dodger and lived to tell about it. But she _knows_ the Dodger—she studied him maybe even _too_ well—and she knows how he thinks. A criminal as cunning and ruthless as the Dodger wouldn’t let her go without a price for his mercy. Her hand flies to her neck as soon as she remembers his MO, and, sure enough, she encounters a hard, metal collar around her neck. Her first instinct is to pull it away because logic isn’t high up on her list of reactions after finding she’s just a button-push away from losing her head— _literally_.

A leather-clad hand pulls hers away from the collar gently, and she realizes that the Arrow and Diggle are standing around her when she could blow at _any moment_. She sits up, scrambling backward across the floor. “No, stay back,” she snaps immediately, her voice high and a little panicked, even to her. "If this thing blows—"

Because he’s the Arrow and it’s his wont, he ignores her, catching her wrist before she can pull back any further. “Felicity,” he says gently, cutting her off. With one word, she snaps back to her senses. Panic won’t do her any good here; calm, rational thought is going to be what keeps her alive. His hand reaches out and slides along her jaw, the concern clear in her eyes. “That's _not_ going to happen. You’re going to be all right.” It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, crouching there in front of her with very dark eyes. “It’s a circuit, and no one knows circuits like you. I’ll be your eyes—talk me through it.”

She nods but doesn’t trust herself to move, and suddenly strong arms hoist her up as if she weighs nothing. He gently places her on the table in the middle of the room, her legs dangling off the edge. A few steps place him between her knees, and she can feel the hem of the leather jacket at his waist brush against her legs. She’s fairly certain that, under different circumstances, she would be crimson, but all the blood seems to have drained from her face.

He doesn’t seem to notice, pulling a knife with an emerald handle from his pocket and flicking it open in one smooth motion. Vaguely she remembers it as the switchblade she used to cut an arrow out of his shoulder and pop the SIM card out of his phone, but she’s more concerned with how he’s going to use it tonight. “There’s a compartment,” he explains through the synthesizer, as though reading her mind, and his gloved hand slides between the collar and her neck as he wedges the knife into the device. A small _pop_ lets her know he’s pulled it loose, and he frowns as he explains the circuit to her.

She frowns, too, when he finishes answering her questions. “There’s no way to break the circuit without blowing _all_ of us apart,” she answers, sounding surprisingly calm for someone flirting with death at the moment. “The only way to release it is to use the switch—the one the Dodger has.”

He slides the knife back into the pocket of those leather pants before taking her elbow. “Then we’ll release it,” he assures her, and his voice is eerily calm—the kind of calm Felicity has always associated with resolute serial killers. And, for the very first time, she's afraid of what he’ll do. “Digg,” he calls as he hands Felicity the coat she checked earlier, “the police are already here—get their attention and let them know an item has been stolen.” He guides Felicity forward, to the door. “I’m going after this bastard, and you’re coming with me.”

“You’re putting yourself at risk—he could hit that button at any—” she starts to protest, but when he rounds on her, she suddenly loses her voice. For the first time, she’s realizing that maybe the Arrow is someone to fear—and certainly that he has one _hell_ of a temper.

His hand touches her face with the same gentleness as before, and suddenly the fire drains out of him. “I’m not leaving you,” he insists in a dark tone, which works for her because she doesn’t particularly want to wait and see if she lives or dies, anyway. “And I’m not letting him get away, either.”

Before she has time to answer, he’s guiding her back through the deserted halls of the auction house, toward the back door. She pulls the coat on as they walk, trying to keep up with his pace as she does so. When he opens the door, she’s both relieved and petrified to see the damned motorcycle leaning against the back wall. “I’m not getting on that thing in _this_ skirt,” she insists, “so don’t even ask.”

"Felicity," he says again, but this time it's a growl of frustration. His tone is dark, and the addition of the synthesizer doesn't make it any better. With a long sigh, he moves from the bike to walk up to her. "I am not above putting you on this bike in front of me," he states lowly, in that dark tone, and something tells her he isn't joking. He crosses his arms in challenge, and she sighs because, really, she has already lost—at least this way she can maintain some dignity.

He seems to take her frown and lack of response as agreement, and he opens the storage compartment for her to put her bag in. She takes her phone out first, going to the locator app to watch the Dodger's progress through the city. Then he climbs on the bike and she follows, frowning as her skirt rides up. She pulls at it and it helps, but it's definitely a lost cause. Sighing, she wraps one arm around his waist, gripping her phone tight as he takes off.

The ride is wild, even compared to some of her previous experiences, and she has to stop watching the GPS locator and use the other arm to grip through some frankly ridiculous turns that she's pretty sure he should _not_ be taking at those speeds. Either way, it seems to work for him because they finally manage to catch up to the jewel thief when he goes into a parking garage to try and avoid the Arrow.

But it doesn't work out too well for him, since they cut him off, and Felicity takes a deep breath when the bike pulls to a halt, almost glad to be hidden from the Dodger behind the vigilante. "Don't do anything stupid," the Dodger calls as he moves to stand in front of the car, holding up a device—probably the switch they're looking for. "I had the foresight to wire up a particularly inquisitive blonde—I assume she’s one of yours." He shrugs as though it doesn't mean a damn thing to him. "Either way, she has enough C4 in her collar to level that auction building." He holds up the switch. "Let me go now, and I'll release her."

The Arrow says nothing, simply slides off the bike before helping Felicity do the same. She watches as the Dodger's eyes go wide, and it's only then that the Arrow smiles. It's honestly a little terrifying, Felicity thinks, since he's most likely planning how to torture the man in front of them.

"I doubt you'd blow the collar," he answers in that unnatural pitch, "when it would affect you, too." He pulls his bow then, drawing an arrow lightning fast and sending it into the Dodger's arm. The thief screams as it pins him to the car, and Felicity winces at the way it hits. "Your median nerve has been severed—you couldn't press that button if you wanted to now." Still, before the Dodger can do anything besides think about the pain, the vigilante pulls the remote device out of his hand, and presses a button.

Felicity breathes for what feels like the first time since she woke up, her hand flying to her now free throat. "Oh, thank God," she mutters.

At the same time, the Arrow reaches her, cupping her jaw carefully before pulling away the collar. "Are you all right?" he asks her, and she nods slowly. He turns partially back toward the Dodger, his eyes narrowing. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't send an arrow through his heart." His voice is dark and ominous, assuring her that he's intent on carrying out the threat.

But, at the same time, he also seems to be asking her to talk him out of it, and Felicity is more than willing to comply. She can't think on her feet so well due to the excitement, but she does manage to say, "Because I don't want you to?" It's a question, but then she steels herself, adding more confidence to her tone. "I don't want you to kill anyone. Not for me."

He frowns at her, as though part of him wants to argue, but then he sighs and runs a hand over his face before turning back to the Dodger. The Arrow crosses the distance between them quickly, pulling the other man up by his shirt collar. Judging by the way the jewel thief screams, it’s probably pulling his arm at an odd angle. “The only reason I’m going to let you live tonight,” the Arrow starts in a tone so dark it makes Felicity shiver, “is because I want you to serve as a warning. When the inmates at Iron Heights ask you what happens when you cross the Arrow, I want you to tell them your name. I want you to tell them how you have an arm you’ll never be able to use again because you decided to use my associates to get to me.” He releases the Dodger. “And then I want you to tell them that next time, I won’t be so nice.” He ends the sentence with a swift punch to the Dodger’s face, knocking the man out.

When he turns back to Felicity, he unzips his jacket far enough to pull out the phone she gave him, and then he finds a contact before dialing. It takes her a moment to realize what he’s doing, but then his, “Good evening, Detective,” clarifies things for her. He’s calling Lance to clean up the mess. “The Dodger is waiting for you in a parking garage on the corner of Seventy-Eighth and Oak.”

As he’s speaking, he walks up to Felicity, and she wraps her arms around his waist, still trying to process the fact that she nearly died tonight. Somehow, the fact is a little easier to bear when she’s so close to him. His free arm immediately wraps around her, hugging her to him. Something new enters his tone as he responds to Lance with, “The Dodger is my problem when he decides to target my people.” There’s a shorter pause this time. “It’s a mistake he’ll live to regret.” Another pause. “She’s fine.” His arm pulls her in tighter as he adds, “I take care of my own, Detective.” He hangs up without waiting for a response, pulling away from her to say, “Diggle will vouch for you leaving the auction early.” He motions to the bike. “I’m taking you home.”

She doesn’t even fight him on it—after all, it’s the best offer she’s had all day.

 

* * *

 

Felicity's hand is shaking so bad she can hardly fish out her keys from the clutch, and she thinks again about how much she _hates_ going into shock. She's shivering, even under her peacoat, and she knows it's nothing to do with the cold. Frowning, she tries to slip the key into the door, but her hands are shaking so violently that it drops to the ground.

Sighing, she's about to pick it up when an emerald-gloved hand shoots out in front of her, and she jumps back before she realizes that the Arrow opened her door from the other side. He rises, pulling her hand up and sliding her keys into her upturned hand. "Are you all right?" he asks, and she nods before looking over her shoulder to make sure that no one sees him.

She motions him back inside, sliding the door shut as quickly as possible. He lets her lock her door herself, seeming to understand that she needs to do this. The reality of nearly being blown to pieces has kicked in on the ride home, and she realizes just how close she was.

When she turns, the Arrow is frowning at her. "I should have put an arrow in him," he states lowly, with that same icy calm from before. "I don't want you to be afraid." He looks away, as though he's failed her somehow.

She tugs at his arm, sliding her fingers through his. "I'm glad you didn't," she answers truthfully. "Because, if you had, you would have been just like him."

He doesn't look at her as he responds, "I already am." Her eyebrows furrow as she realizes what he's saying. "But I'm worse. Felicity, I've done things just as horrible as the people I target." It sounds like a confession of sorts, but she's confused as to which part of it is supposed to surprise her.

Feeling brave and like he needs a little comfort, she reaches out, sliding her hand under the hood to touch his cheek, letting her hand fall over the rough stubble at his jaw. He looks at her with an expression she can't quite comprehend, and she stumbles over her words before saying, "I don't know what Hell you faced in the Bratva"—he flinches—"or any other part of your life, but I don’t care. You’re not that person anymore. I may not know a lot about you, but I do know two things: you're the most heroic person I've ever met, and..." She bites her lip, trying to figure out how to word it, but then decides it's accurate the way it is. "And I believe in you."

His expression is stoic, but his eyes answer for him, turning dark with an intensity that's new even to her. His hand slides up to meet the one of hers on his jaw, and he slides his fingers between hers before pulling them to intertwine at their sides. Carefully, he reaches his other hand toward her face, sliding his crooked index finger under her chin. She thinks it's ridiculous that he's giving her the opportunity to pull away, even though they both know she won't.

Slowly, he leans in toward her until he's only inches from her. His eyes flick up to hers, and whatever he sees there must encourage him because her eyes fall shut at the same moment his mouth falls on hers.

She's had a lot of time to anticipate the kiss over the past few weeks, and she’s always imagined that a kiss between them would be rough and demanding. Instead, he's gentle and careful, moving his mouth across hers slowly to gauge her reaction. She follows quickly, her free hand reaching up to curl under his shoulder. The eager response builds his confidence, and his hand slides to her jaw as he grows more insistent. Even then, the kiss is slow and methodical—too much so for her liking. She ups the ante a little, reaching her hand under the hood to fall across the back of his neck so that she can press his mouth further into hers.

He takes the hint, his hand pulling out of hers so that he can cup her face with both hands. The next thing she feels as his mouth presses harder against hers is her back against the door, and then her brain just shuts down as emotions and sensations take over. She has no idea how long they stand like that, but, when they break apart, she’s fairly certain she’ll never be able to catch her breath.

He’s breathing hard, too, and his hand falls over the side of her head, one finger touching a clip in her hair as he notices the green rhinestones on it. “You used these on purpose,” he accuses, his voice a little ragged and breathless. Part of her is confused by the banal conversation, but the other half is relieved he didn’t try to broach a more difficult conversation.

“Wearing green makes me feel brave,” she admits. The way his eyes bore into her now make her want to ask what’s next for them, but she doesn’t feel quite _that_ brave. “I need to go get undressed,” she blurts, and his eyes widen—but darken at the same time, a voice in the back of her mind can’t help but notice. She waves her hands. “God, no! Not what I meant at all! I meant I’d like to get out of this dress.” That doesn’t help, so she adds in a rush, “And into some pajamas or something! That wasn’t—Wow, this is bad, and I don’t know how to fix it, but that actually wasn’t a come on. Even if—”

He presses his lips to hers again, but this time it’s a short, chaste kiss. “Felicity,” he says with a soft laugh in his voice, even under the synthesizer, “I understand.” The corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly as he adds, "Even if I could stare at you in that dress all night." He steps away from her, albeit a little reluctantly, and moves to sit on the couch, studying the computer parts haphazardly thrown around her coffee table. “I’ll wait here.”

She tries to stay as casual as possible until her door is shut, and then she flops onto her bed in a heap for a moment. This, she decides, has to be her worst idea ever, but she can’t bring herself to care.

After a long moment, she throws on a pair of random pajama pants, only realizing afterward that they’re the ridiculous ones with mustachioed moose with monocles that have “moose stache” printed under every picture. She sighs as she pulls on the matching tank top, but then decides it’s too cold for a tank. She picks up the first shirt she finds, unsurprised to find that it’s the v-neck that gave her so much trouble the last time she wore it.

She walks out of her bedroom a little hesitantly, unsure of what to say. His eyes tilt upward, staring at her with the same, familiar intensity. "I'm glad you kept that shirt," he says slowly. "You wear it well." His eyes drop ever so slightly, focusing on the sky blue tank underneath. "But not as well as the first night."

She turns crimson on the spot, but she thinks that maybe she'll have to become accustomed to his praise, since he seems so fond of complimenting her. Nothing is said for a long moment, and it leads to the same general awkwardness when she blurts, “So how is this…” She trails off as she motions between them. “...Going to work?” She bites her lip. "I mean, I want this to be _something_ , and, well, I don't want to be one more woman in the line that the Arrow visits at night." She waves a hand, flushing. "I don't think you're like that, but I mean I just—"

"Felicity," he says, firmly this time. There's the faintest hint of a smile playing at his mouth, and she finds she'd very much like to see how it feels under her own. "You're the only woman I'm interested in." He says it with so much sincerity, even if they're the most ridiculous words she's ever heard. No doubt he could have his pick of any woman in this city, and yet he chooses _her_. "And this will work however you want it to." He hesitates. “I can’t be everything you deserve.” He looks almost forlorn by the admission, and she wonders where the hell he’s gotten that idea. Felicity sits down next to him, her leg brushing his, and she takes his hand between both of hers, causing him to look up at her.

The Arrow studies her intently as she informs him, “I already told you—you don't deserve me, but you have me anyway.” He allows himself a quiet laugh. "But it doesn't matter because you're everything I want." She bites her lip before adding, “And, frankly, a much better kisser than I had hoped for.” That admission brings a smile to his face, and she feels a little like she’s accomplished something. She turns away, again biting on her lip.

She’s not surprised when he tilts her head back toward him, or when he slides her lip out from between her teeth with his thumb. “And?” he prompts gently.

“And,” she answers, “I know it’s a ridiculous request, but I think I’d feel better if you stayed here tonight.” She bites her lip again, only to have him coax it out seconds later with his thumb. “I know it’s silly since I’ll never see the Dodger again, but I always feel safer when you’re around. I know you probably have something more important to do.”

“Nothing is more important than keeping you safe,” he answers instantly, and she takes that as agreement. Before he can change his mind, she takes a throw pillow from the other end of the couch and tosses it onto his lap, laying her head on it. She feels the low vibration of laughter in his chest as she pulls the blanket off the back of the couch, covering herself in it.

His arm drapes just above the curve of her hip when she situates herself across the sofa, his hand splaying gently over her stomach, and she tries to remember the last time she felt so content. (She draws a blank.) “Goodnight, Felicity,” he says quietly, just like every night he visits, but this time it’s accompanied by his lips at her temple.

“Goodnight,” she mutters back as she tries to fight sleep, but she knows it’s a lost cause. Too much has happened tonight, and her body demands nothing less that a full night’s sleep as payment for the emotional turmoil she put herself through tonight. She’s not the only one, though.

The Arrow is already asleep by the time her eyes drift shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Anything but Ordinary" - Avril Lavigne  
> "Hero/Heroine" - Boys Like Girls  
> "All or Nothing" - Theory of a Deadman  
> "It's All Your Fault" - P!nk  
> "As Long as You Love Me" - Backstreet Boys  
> "Bathwater" - No Doubt
> 
> **Also, a semi-important note:** I'm approaching 200 followers on Tumblr, so I'm going to write a prompt!fic for my peeps when I get 200. You can send me your prompts at my Tumblr page (on profile), and you can find the guidelines page [here](http://thatmasquedgirl.tumblr.com/post/100163788522/almost-to-200-followers-d).


	30. Password Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity end any awkwardness over a bad date, and Thea has boy problems. "Boy problems" being a euphemism for "some punk snatched my purse but I'm going to love him someday." Loosely translated, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/3wtj9yhNVkPRsHxsnF0yMX).
> 
> Okay, a lot of you were asking about things at the end of last chapter, so I think this will clear everything up. If not, be sure to let me know. It's awesome that you guys are still with me (thanks for the overwhelming response on the last chapter!), and I thank you all for reading. And reviews are much appreciated, if you have the time. :)

Felicity wakes up twice the next morning. The first time, she awakens to a rocking motion and she’s fuzzy until she realizes that she’s being carried. Under different circumstances, she’d be terrified, but she knows her hand is wrapped around the strap of a quiver and that she’s curled against soft, green leather. Cold bites at her exposed skin in the sudden temperature drop, and she instantly pulls herself further against him. It causes a low rumble in his chest, and she feels more than hears his soft chuckle.

The Arrow shifts her ever so slightly in his arms, and then she feels her cheek press against the cool fabric of her pillow. She struggles to open her eyes, but they seem almost glued together. “Wait,” she says finally, her voice coated in sleep, the words sluggish.

“It’s almost morning,” he answers quietly, so she doesn’t have to speak. “I’m sorry—I have to go.” His hand falls on her hair, brushing it away from her face, and then slides down to run a line across her jaw. Finally, it falls upon her upper arm, and then his lips press against her cheek.

He turns to leave, but she takes his arm, opening her eyes wide enough to make sure his mouth lands on hers. It’s a brief kiss, and he chuckles against her lips before pulling away. “I understand,” she answers finally.

“I’ll see you tonight,” is the last thing she hears before her eyes fall shut again.

The next time she awakens, it’s to Saphira pawing and whining at her. She frowns because she doesn't remember letting her out of the guest room, but Felicity figures the Arrow was kind enough to do so. Still foggy, she opens her eyes slowly, faintly registering the sound of someone knocking at her door. Her vision is unfocused and hazy because she didn't take out her contacts, and she groans as Saphira starts barking again, this time charging toward the door.

"Just a minute!" Felicity calls in a voice coated with sleep, and then she takes a moment to take out her contacts and trade them for her glasses before scrambling out of bed.

She practically runs to the door, checking the peephole even though she knows that it's Oliver, based solely on Saphira's reaction. Sure enough, it is, and Felicity grabs Saphira's collar before reaching up to unlock the door. When she swings it open, she's surprised to see Thea with him. "Hey," she says cheerfully. "Saphira is particularly excited this morning, so I'll let you two sit down before I unleash the beast." She picks up the dog, who screams loudly in protest, trying to struggle out of Felicity's grasp. But Felicity's an expert with the squirmy dog now, and she knows how to handle her.

"Does she come with ear plugs?" Thea asks with a frown. "Oh, better question—is she supposed to make that sound?"

"She's a shiba," Felicity answers, yelling slightly over the noise. "They make high-pitched screams when they're excited or unhappy." She shrugs. "Right now, she's upset because she wants Oliver." He sits down on what has become his end of the sofa, and Felicity drops the loud little monster on his lap. "Here, have a dog."

Both Thea and Felicity watch with amusement as Saphira paws at him, begging him to pet her, tail wagging all the while. It takes her a moment, but she finally curls in his lap. Thea is the first to speak, shaking her head. "Ollie has always had a way with the ladies," she jokes, "especially the bitches." He throws her a withering look, but she just smiles at him.

"Speedy," he says, and Felicity can only assume that's a nickname he has for her, "I'm not above making you walk back home." It's an empty threat and they all know it, but she sticks her tongue out at him. He looks around before looking back at her. "Did you bring the food?"

Thea frowns. "I thought you had it," she says, crossing her arms in a way that clearly states, _And I'm not going back for it, either_.

Oliver looks to Felicity before gently sliding Saphira off his lap and standing up, and the dog whines in protest. "Digg told me you left early because you weren't feeling well," he explains, "so I thought that I'd bring you breakfast." Silently, she praises John Diggle because he’s amazing enough to spoon She opens her mouth to apologize for leaving, but he places his hand over hers. "And before you try, there's nothing to apologize for." He winks at her to show her he isn't mad, then turns toward the door. "I'll go grab the bag _my sister_ forgot to carry in, and then I'll be back."

As soon as the door clicks in place behind him, Thea turns in her seat toward Felicity. She expects a grilling about last night details, but instead she gets Thea stating in hushed tones, "Okay, so we don't have a lot of time, but I need your help with the asshat in the red hoodie again." She huffs. "I tried to get Lance to arrest him, but then he started talking about how his dad is dead and his mom is addicted to Vertigo and how he can't get a job with his criminal record." She frowns. "And, well, I've always been a sucker for a sad story and a vintage Chanel purse."

She waves a hand, shaking her head. "So, I dropped all charges because I felt sorry for him. I went down to the Glades and tried to get my purse back during lunch last week, but he slammed the door in my face." She huffs, crossing her arms. "Do you think you can help me get it back?" she asks, hope in her voice.

Felicity frowns because she _really_ doesn't want to be involved further in this, but then she thinks she might actually be able to get Roy Harper's attention. They're from similar worlds, and she's not going to be intimidated by a door slammed in her face. "Okay," she says finally. Thea beams, but Felicity holds up her hand. "Here's the story. You and I are going to go on a shopping trip to that thrift store I told you about during Christmas, and then we're grabbing dinner." She bites her lip. "I think I can solve your problem, but we'll see how it goes."

Thea beams, but Felicity holds up her index finger. "But I need three promises from you in return. One, you are _never_ to tell your brother about this. Two, stay out of the Glades." She crosses her arms. "You're too brave for your own good by doing that—especially without a car. I _grew up_ in the Glades, and _I'm_ scared of parts of it. Three..." Felicity sighs, trying to think of a delicate way to phrase whatever she plans to say next. "Don't fall for every sob story a guy like Roy Harper tells the police. Sometimes a sob story can be the difference between jail and community service, and someone with a record like his will know that."

Thea nods twice before hugging her, and Felicity bets that this girl will be the death of her—even with strong prospects like the Arrow, the criminals they go after, and Oliver in her life. Thea is all heart, so much more reactionary than Oliver. And Felicity is pretty sure that reactionary nature is going to drag them _both_ into trouble. "I promise," Thea answers. "Felicity, thank you so much."

Felicity waves a hand. "Don't mention it. And I _mean_ that."

Thea chuckles as if the blonde just made a joke, as if she wasn't serious. "So," she starts, drawing out the word with a mischievous smile on her face, "what's with you bailing out on Ollie?" Her smile sets Felicity's nerves on edge. "And what were you two doing?" Her smile indicates something _way_ off track, and it's such an indecent smile that Felicity turns crimson.

"I went with him to that charity auction yesterday," she answers, waving her hand. Part of her thinks it's unreal that the events were just yesterday; it feels like ages ago, with all that happened with the Arrow and the Dodger after she left Oliver. “I think I ate something out-of-date by mistake, and so I ended up leaving early, and Mr. Diggle drove me home.” She hears the door shut quietly behind Oliver, so she adds to him, “Which I feel horrible about. I should have called you, but…” She trails off, unsure of how to continue. Because, really, she thinks that _but I was held hostage at bomb collar by a jewel thief_ sounds a little ridiculous, even if it _is_ true.

Oliver doesn’t give her time to finish the thought. "Felicity, there's nothing to apologize for," he assures her. "You were sick and so you asked to go home." He sits the paper bag in her lap, and she's surprised to find it's the bistro up the street that she and Barry love so much. It surprises her because she's never mentioned it and she's only had it once in recent times: when Barry stayed the night with her after the Arrow's mishap. Clearly she's sold Oliver short because she doesn't expect him to be so observant. Amazingly enough, he even has her order right from the last time. Which is impressive because even Barry forgets half the time.

She knows he'll wave off her thanks, so she decides to go with a less serious approach. "You have a free computer repair as per our agreement," she says with a partial smile, and he chuckles in response. "And my appreciation—because my cupboards are so bare that three starving children sent me apology letters. The food fairies have not been kind to me."

He chuckles before motioning for Thea to rise to her feet. "We'll leave you to eat in peace."

Thea doesn't move, looking at Felicity with questioning eyes, and the blonde takes the hint. "Actually," she replies slowly, “I think Thea has just talked me into a shopping trip today, so I guess she's staying."

Oliver's reaction isn't what she expects: his head tilts to the side ever so slightly, and he blinks twice before breaking into a hesitant smile. "Are you sure about this?" he asks, and Felicity thinks she might have messed up because his expression questions her sanity.

Thea waves a hand, rolling her eyes. "Of course I'm sure, Ollie," she answers instantly. "I haven't had the chance to really get to know her. You stole Felicity away early, and it's time you learned to share." She rolls her eyes again. "I promise to bring her back to you in one piece."

"Good to know," Oliver answers, "but I was actually asking Felicity because I know how long your shopping trips last." He turns toward her again, waiting expectantly for an answer.

"I think I'll live," Felicity answers dryly. "That's the good thing about being the one with the car—I'll drop her off after I get enough." She follows it up with a wink and a smile in Thea's direction, and the younger Queen throws a conspiratorial smile right back. "Hey, Thea, why don't you search through my closet to see what you can come up with—I don't feel like picking out an outfit this morning." The suggestion is met with a squeal, and then Thea is dashing off to her closet without a beat.

"You don't have to do this," Oliver says quietly as she walks him toward the door. "But I think she needs some time with someone. She's either in school or doing her community service work, and..." He hesitates. "She and our mother don't have enough time together now that Mom is CEO." He stops at the door, putting a hand on her arm. "But if you don't feel like doing this, it doesn't have to be today."

Felicity offers him a smile. "Oliver, it's fine. I think I feel better, and my closet is due for an overhaul anyway." It doesn't seem to convince him, so she meets his eyes and pulls the hand from her arm, weaving her fingers through his. She squeezes them before letting go. "And, besides, my list of friends is limited to you, Barry, and Tommy. While I think you're all wonderful, that also means that my girl time is severely limited. So Thea and I _both_ need this. I'll take care of her—I promise."

It doesn't wipe the frown from his face, but he does look as though he feels a little better about the arrangement. "It's not Thea I'm concerned about," he replies after a long moment, his eyes with the same breathtaking intensity that she can't seem to avoid with him. She really can't handle anything of this magnitude today, so she looks away almost immediately.

It's a mistake. Something about lacking eye contact seems to make Oliver brave, and the next thing she feels is soft lips and rough stubble across her cheek. She looks at him immediately with wide eyes, and he avoids hers as he says, "Just be careful, Felicity," before slipping out the door.

She locks it behind her, one hand falling across her cheek as she does so. Well, this is unexpected, she can't help but think. She tries to gather her thoughts before returning to Thea, but she can't quite block it out. The last time he kissed her, she thought it was only to make her feel less uncomfortable about her gaffe. Now she's realizing that maybe he has feelings for her. And maybe she has feelings for him, too. But then there's _the Arrow_ , who she might actually have something with. Finally she settles on one thought, and it pretty much sums up her entire life.

She is _so_ screwed.

 

* * *

 

"You remember the rules, right?" Felicity asks Thea, turning toward her in the small space of the Mini Cooper. Suddenly she's nervous, and this has nothing to do with the sort of deception involved with Oliver or the Arrow. She's not sure where this will head, but she knows it's going to end in confrontation with both Roy Harper and a past she's been trying to forget.

Thea rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. "I'm supposed to lock the doors as soon as you get out," she answers in a monotone and a surprising amount of attitude. "And I'm not supposed to unlock the car for anyone but you." Another eye roll. "Felicity, I'm not so incompetent that I can't work a freaking car lock. I've got this." She makes a shooing motion. "Go. And don't come back unless you have a vintage Chanel purse in your hands."

Felicity pulls herself out of the car, smoothing down her skirt and pulling her purple peacoat tighter around herself to break the chill in the night air. She walks up to the door with her stomach churning, but she knocks on it anyway.

The door opens, and she finally sees that face that Thea has been talking about for the better part of a week. Now that she's looking at Roy Harper, she realizes that she was a fool for not recognizing him from the DMV photo. He hasn't changed a bit.

He takes one glance down her figure and attire before stating in a dry tone, "I'm not interested in any bibles, but thanks for the sales call." He moves to shut the door on her, but she wedges her foot into the door.

"First of all," she states flatly, "that's a little presumptuous. Just because I'm wearing a skirt doesn't mean that I'm here to sell you something. Second of all, I'm Jewish." She shakes her head. "But, most importantly, I'm here because you stole a purse from a friend of mine and she wants it back."

He rolls his eyes immediately, taking in her attire again. "What, so she sent Law School Barbie to slap me with some charges?" he tries again, and really, Felicity is getting sick of the attitude.

She scoffs. "'Law School Barbie'?" she repeats. "Please. If I was a lawyer, I'd be more Elle Woods—but maybe with a side of Caroline Julian." She crosses her arms. "And I'm not a lawyer—I'm a friend of Thea's." He looks at her as if to say, _What, and you expect me to believe this crap?_ "And the Queen family, really. I'm Felicity."

He sighs, looking down at her with his head held high. "So she doesn't get her purse back—and then she sends one of her rich friends who _aren't_ stoned to get it back?" He crosses his arms.

"You don't know a thing about me, Roy Harper," Felicity says flatly. "Just because I have nice things now doesn't mean I always have. And, unlike you, I actually _work_ so I can afford them."

He doesn't back down, nor does she expect him to. "Well, maybe I could—if I could get a job." His eyes narrow as he focuses on her. "They tend to frown upon hiring guys with robbery records."

She doesn't even hesitate. "Well, if it would keep you from stealing purses from teenage girls, then I know I guy who is opening a club." She knows what it's like to be from nothing, to see someone try to give a handout, and so she adds, "I could get you an interview, but after that you'd be on your own."

He frowns. "You mean a job working for _Oliver Queen_ ," he surmises, seeming completely underwhelmed by the idea.

"No, my other billionaire, club-owning friend," she retorts sarcastically, and it actually brings a smile to the kid's face—even though he tries to hide it. She allows the corners of her mouth to turn up. "No, seriously, it's not Oliver. You wouldn't be high enough on the food chain to work for him. You'd be working for his general manager, Tommy Merlyn."

He doesn't seem convinced, so she pulls one of her cards out of her pocket. "Give it some thought," she says as she holds out the card. He reaches to grab it, but she pulls it back. "Provided, of course, you can right one tiny injustice in the system."

He frowns but relents. "Come on," he says finally, motioning her in. "I'll go grab it." She follows him into the little shack and she frowns because it reminds her so much of— No, she will _not_ think about that—never again. From another room, he calls, "You do know your _friend_ is a spoiled trust fund brat, right? Gets a Maserati for her birthday, totals it, and pretends that it's expected she's back in a car—even if it is a lousy Mini."

Felicity crosses her arms. "Spoiled? Yes. Trust fund girl? Yes. But not a brat—she's confused and a little misguided. A lot like someone whose living room I happen to be standing in right now. "And that 'lousy Mini' is mine, by the way—she's limited to walking for a while because of that mishap. You also forgot that she's dealing with a dead father, a missing stepfather, a distraught mother, and a very damaged older brother who has been dead for five years." She locks eyes with him as he ducks back into the living room. "And you might be the most judgmental person I've ever met in my life."

He hands her the purse back. "Well, then, I'm glad to hold that distinction," he quips, and she hands him the card. "Just because I take this doesn't mean I'm taking the job. I'm a car thief—I don't think they're going to turn me loose with a Rolls Royce." He pauses. "It's all there, by the way, except for the cigarettes. I'm keeping those—that's a filthy habit."

"If you hadn't, I would have," she answers. Against her better judgment, Felicity empathizes a little with the kid, so she blurts suddenly, "I'm a hacker in another life." His eyebrows shoot up, and she continues, "In another life where I'm past the statute of limitations, of course. But now I work in IT. Not to go all Yoda on you, but your gifts can be used for good or evil—what you do with them is up to you."

He scoffs. "Well," he says finally, "one thing's for certain: you showed a lot of sack for coming down here in the middle of the night."

She rolls her eyes. "Are you kidding me?" she answers. "I live five streets over." His eyes go wide, and she reminds him, "You don't know anything about me, Roy." She bites her lip. "Well, maybe you do—I was one of Mrs. Nagorski's, too."

He studies her for a moment. "You were the girl with the thick glasses and frizzy brown hair who always had her nose buried in a book," he realizes, and Felicity nods once before swallowing. "How did you get from that to this?"

"I decided that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life in what I grew up in," she answers quietly. "And it's a realization I'd recommend to you." She hesitates. "If you ever need a place to crash, call. After all, as Mrs. Nagorski used to say, we take care of our own." He doesn't answer and she doesn't expect him to, so she turns on her heel to leave.

"Thanks," he says after she manages a few steps. She turns back, nods, and then she's made it back to the car, handing Thea the purse as her mind runs elsewhere.

"Oh my God, thank you!" Thea says to her. "I knew you could talk some sense into him because you managed Ollie and there's no way he could be worse than _Ollie_." She eyes Felicity for a moment. "So, what did you have to say to get him to agree?"

A lot of things she didn't want to. All she offers is an enigmatic smile and with a wink she answers one word: "Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Uncharted" - Sara Bareilles  
> "Save Me" - Queen  
> "Trust" - Neon Trees  
> "Dangerous" - Within Temptation feat. Howard Jones  
> "Happy" - Leona Lewis  
> "Someday" - Rob Thomas


	31. Circuit Rewiring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Humanitarian Award Banquet doesn't go as planned when someone gets shot. Which is not a very humanitarian act _at all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/3sQ5aaYETTrM2G7pM8oFVb).
> 
> I am completely brain-dead tonight, but I don't really think there's much to discuss this time, other than this is a super-long chapter and one of my favorites. :D Anyway, all reviews/comments are welcomed and appreciated, but I'm pleased as punch that y'all keep reading anyway. :) Thanks for all the support, guys and gals! :)
> 
> Oh, there was something I was going to say: I think the caffeine thing here is legit. Granted my knowledge base is Google, Wikipedia, and a B in a junior-level biochem class, but it looks legit to me. If not, well, creative license. :P (That was a weird week—I Googled "curare," types of swords, and illegal knives in the same week. *wrinkles nose* Most in the same day, if memory serves. I'm just a fanfiction writer, I swear. ;P)

Felicity finds herself praying for some sort of criminal enterprise to attack, if only to relieve her from the party and its boredom. Barry was cruel enough to write her in as his plus-one to the humanitarian dinner thing—for the third year in a _row_ —and so she's stuck trying to pretend to enjoy conversation between pretentious billionaires. Barry works the room with poise and charm (except when he laughs—dear God, they really need to work on that), but Felicity is content to wrap her arm through his and try not to drink the champagne so quickly that she gets drunk. Then again, maybe that would be an improvement in her life.

Then she remembers that the _last_ time she was drunk, when she and Barry ended up dancing on the Merlyn Bridge and a really sloppy, awkward make-out session that ended in her stopping to heave her guts out over the side of the railing. Then they made the transition to singing Madonna songs together, which was interesting because Barry didn't know half the words, and he can't sing on key to save his life. It was so awkward the day after that they both made the mutual decision never get drunk—or to speak of the Incident—again. But still, something tells her that her very awesome rendition of "Like a Virgin" would be lost on this crowd. And "Vogue" isn't any fun unless you have the synthetic beats in the background while you do the photo-frame hand thing.

Sighing, she catches Tommy’s eye across the way. He waves and she returns it, and he winks at her with that same expression from earlier, the one he wore when he told her, “You know Ollie is going to be _pissed_ when he learns you were here in _that_ dress on another guy’s arm, right?” She’s not worried as much about Oliver as the Arrow; it was a last-minute thing (Barry was supposed to ask Iris, but he chickened out), and she didn't have a chance to tell him.

Still, Tommy’s right about the dress—it wasn’t a bad find on such short notice. It’s black lace over a flesh tone color, with gold, sequined paisley following the flow of her curves on the left. The halter style of the top opens up into an open back, with two straps making an inverted V, starting at the halter and ending at opposite sides of the open space. More gold paisley print stretches across the back, this time on the right. With her hair piled on her head and a soft lipstick, she actually looks like she fits in with the one-percenters running around.

As if to answer her prayers, her cell phone starts ringing, and she pulls away from Barry and the droll conversation with a soft, “Excuse me,” to answer it. She fishes it out of her black purse with some effort, trying to find which one is ringing. Because she changed both of her phones vibrate before she entered the Humanitarian Awards Banquet, she’s surprised to find that it’s her Arrow phone going off, and that’s all she needs to know who’s calling. “What’s going on?” she asks immediately. “I thought you weren’t doing anything tonight so I’m not home—I don’t have good computer access right now. So unless you need something Googled on my data plan, well, I’m a computer tech, not a miracle worker.”

“I need you on the fifth floor _now_ ,” he answers shortly, then thinks to add a, “please.” It makes a chill go down her spine that he knows where she is, but she figures he probably has a GPS tracker in her phone or something. And then she realizes that it makes sense he has a handle on his people at all times—especially after the Dodger thing. “I found the hitman’s target, but I might be too late. I need your help—bring your date.” The last word is said with bite, and she’s surprised because he almost sounds _jealous_ or something. Then the long pause afterward cements it for her.

She waves Barry over, and he walks toward her immediately. “And you’re being a jealous idiot,” she surmises. “I can’t do this with you right now. Give me five minutes to round up Barry—who is like my _brother_ , I might add—and then I’m headed your way.” She hangs up just as Barry meets her, only saying to him quietly, “The Arrow is upstairs, and I think he needs us.” Then it strikes her that the Arrow could be hurt, too, and she nearly calls him back, then decides that he wouldn’t let her worry if he was.

Barry waves a hand. “Lead the way,” he assures her. “I’d never say no to helping him.” He looks at her for a moment as they board the closest elevator. “Is this how it feels all the time for you? Because I’m kind of excited about this.”

She rolls her eyes at his childish behavior, frustrated with _two_ of the men in her life at once. It’s really going to make for quite an experience once they meet this next time. “Yeah, usually there’s more excitement, but he’s being difficult tonight.” She crosses her arms over her chest, unsure of how to tell Barry about the thing with the Arrow. She’s having a difficult time believing it herself, so she has no idea how to break the news to Barry.

The elevator doors open, and she sees the green hooded figure leaning over one side of a man’s body, probably applying pressure. On the other side is Tommy, and then she realizes that the man is Malcolm Merlyn. “Holy fishsticks,” she hears Barry mutter somewhere in the background, and she thinks the sentiment is accurate.

“Go find a first aid kit,” she answers distractedly over her shoulder. “Try the janitor’s closet.” She has no idea what he does then because she’s too busy focusing on the scene unfolded before her. A few quick steps pull her over to the two Merlyn men and the Arrow, and she drops to the floor next to him, falling on her knees. “How can I help?” she asks him quietly, forgetting the early argument as she focuses on the gaping hole in Malcolm Merlyn’s side. Somewhere in the background, she can see Tommy’s mouth working with no sound, but she ignores it.

He moves one hand from the wound to pull hers on top of it. “Apply pressure here,” he answers in that deep, unnatural pitch. “Can you do that?” He studies her for a moment, as if he’s expecting her to say no. And she also notes that his eyes are skimming over her a little too much to be innocent.

“If I couldn’t, I don’t think you’d be sitting here right now. I did this for you not too long ago, remember?” she retorts as she takes over the duty. Her eyes fall over him, too, but for different reasons. “You’re not injured, are you?” The question is answered when she sees a small wound in his arm, and she frowns as she realizes that’s yet another bullet she and Diggle will have to pull out of their favorite emerald archer.

He notices her attentions as he places his fingers to Merlyn’s neck to feel for a pulse, and he answers quietly, “I’ll live.” There’s a moment’s hesitation before he adds with a tentative smile, "And I don't remember—I was unconscious at the time."

She's not so amused, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "Cheeky," she comments. "In fact, it's _very_ cheeky for someone who's currently in the doghouse, mister." He winces, and she has to bite back a smile because of how genuinely concerned he is about her anger. Most of it has already abated, but it's not good to let him know that _just_ yet.

"You work for the Vigilante?" Tommy asks, watching her with wide eyes. Then he shakes his head before continuing with a sharp, bitter voice, "Of course you are—we all know you'd never resist—"

"She doesn't know," the Arrow cuts him off sharply. His eyes tilt upward ever so slightly, in a warning of, _And you don't get to tell her, either_. She's almost certain that he'd put an arrow in Tommy if he tried to finish that sentence.

Felicity's eyes narrow. "You tell _him_ ," she motions in Tommy's general direction before going back to applying pressure, "after five seconds, but I've been with you for months and you don't tell me." She turns toward him. "I'm starting to get a complex here."

He ignores her, focusing on Tommy. " _With_ ," he adds finally, and both Tommy and Felicity turn to look at the emerald archer. He quickly clarifies, "Felicity works _with_ me, not _for_ me. We're partners—she's not my employee."

Both of them look at him, but Felicity is the first to speak. "That was almost sweet," she remarks, nudging her shoulder into his. "I think you just worked your way out of the doghouse with that."

“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly, the words low and hesitant as if he's unsure about saying them. She looks at him immediately, only to find him staring at something interesting about his bow.

“Are you apologizing to me or to your bow?” she asks with a raised eyebrow, and he looks at her for a moment, frowning as though _she’s_ the one making this more difficult. But he hit below the belt by dragging Barry into it, and so maybe she’s seeking a little retribution from him.

He looks completely uncomfortable, but, to his credit, he does answer lowly, “I didn’t snap at my bow.” She lets him stew for a moment before breaking into a smile, and he responds in kind. "You usually tell me about events like this." He leans in closer to her before adding quietly, "And I don't like to share." The intensity of his eyes makes a warm blush fall across her cheeks.

“Apology accepted,” she replies, looking away before she decides this is something that needs addressing. "I would have told you, if Barry had given me any notice whatsoever about this. But he was supposed to ask Iris—his crush—to go with him, but he chickened out, so I'm the only other girl he's comfortable asking." She chuckles. "Don't worry, I'm his second choice."

So quietly she almost misses it, he answers, "You should never be anyone's second choice." His tone nearly makes her want to grab him and kiss him, regardless of their audience. But then she remembers she's supposed to be applying pressure to a bullet wound and that it probably wouldn't be appreciated if she did. It's a frustrating feeling, like having an itch in that particular spot on her back that she can't reach.

She's almost glad to see Barry when he turns the corner with a huge red box, grateful for the distraction. “Nice job finding the first aid kit, Barry.” She turns back to the Arrow. “What do you need?”

“A biochemist,” he answers quickly before turning to Barry. “The bullet was laced with curare. Can you...?" He trails off, clearly unsure of what he needs Barry to do, and Felicity knows the feeling.

The scientist frowns, and Felicity can see the cogs working in his brain. "Most poisons affect a specific set of integral proteins in the cell membrane," he mutters quickly, thinking aloud now. "So there are a few noncompetitive inhibitors I could use to slow the process." He starts digging through the first aid kit, frowning, and Felicity knows that means things look bleak right now. "Caffeine!" he yells suddenly. "Does anyone have any caffeine tablets?"

Felicity digs through her purse to find the bottle, and then she tosses it to Barry. It earns her a you-better-explain-this-now look from the Arrow, and she shrugs. "I thought it would help with long hours at work and..." She waves her hand around before finally miming an arrow being shot from a bow—as best as she can with one hand. " _Not_ work," she finishes lamely, but it does earn her a synthesized chuckle for her efforts. She frowns. "Wait, Deadshot used curare-laced bullets." The Arrow seems surprised she knows that, so Felicity carefully explains, "I watched the news after I pulled the information from that shot-up laptop you brought me. They said you put an arrow through his eye."

"Apparently he's not dead," he answers, and then he looks to Malcolm Merlyn with a frown. "He's lost a lot of blood." He pulls the first aid kit closer with one hand to go through the contents. After a few seconds, he pulls out tubing and what looks like two very specialized needles. "Are you the same blood type as your father?"

Tommy nods twice. "Yeah," he answers. "We're both A-positive."

"Good," is the Arrow's reply, "because you're about to give him a blood transfusion." He says it as though there will be no argument whatsoever, but Tommy seems to have other ideas on the subject.

"How do I know this isn't going to kill both of us?" he asks, meeting the Arrow's eyes without a shred of fear. "I don't trust you." His tone is cold and dark when he says it, and something in the Arrow's expression makes Felicity realizes that the statement hits home for him.

Which kind of makes Felicity want to slap Tommy for being a jerk.

Instead, she asks, "Do you trust _me?_ " Both men turn to her immediately, and she even sees Barry's head perk up from what he's doing. "I've been working with this man"—she puts her hand on the Arrow's shoulder in a show of solidarity—"for a long time. I've known him longer than I've known you." She makes sure to meet Tommy's eyes before finishing, "I trust the Arrow with my life. I've done exactly that before, and I can tell you that there's no one better to depend on. So the question is, Tommy: can you trust my judgment? Can you take a leap of faith, just this once?"

He sighs because he's already decided, but Felicity knows what he's going to say. He holds out his arm. "Go ahead, do it," he says finally, not looking too thrilled about the idea.

That's all the permission they need, so the Arrow pulls two of the rubber strips out, and Felicity watches as he ties one around Merlyn's arm, then Tommy's. The needles go in next, and she watches as blood starts to flow through the tube. It's calm and quiet for a moment, but then she hears footsteps thundering across marble floors, and she knows it's probably police.

"You need to go," she says quietly to the Arrow. He's preoccupied by something, so she nudges him to get his attention before repeating, "The police are moving in—you need to go before they catch you. I'll take care of things here—make sure the proper words are said."

He sighs before rising to his feet and picking up his bow, knowing she's right but clearly unsatisfied with leaving things here. "Barry, hold this," she mutters, letting him hold the cloth over the wound. He takes it from her, and she's about to try and rise to her feet when a gloved hand drops in front of her face.

She takes it, and he walks her over toward the broken window, where he presumably came in. She also notes that he doesn't let go of her hand for the entire walk, something that their audience is probably noticing. "Will you be all right here?" he asks her quietly, and she nods.

"Better than you'll be," she answers dryly, and the corners of his mouth turn up. "I'm starting to get used to that smile." She carefully reaches up and brushes her thumb across the corner of his mouth. "You never used to smile—I feel like at least I've given you that."

He opens his mouth to answer, but then his eyes flick to something in the distance. His thumb brushes the curve at the top of her ear as he cradles her head in his hand. She realizes he's found the new bar running through her industrial piercing—made to look like it has the fletching and point of an arrow at either end. "That's new," he comments quietly, his tone asking for explanation where his words do not.

She thinks of what he said to her earlier about being Barry's plus-one, so she answers, "It should remind you that you'll never have to share. Not where it matters, at least."

His eyes darken, and she knows that expression well. While she'd normally welcome it, instead she decides it's time to abort the mission. "I'll see you later tonight?" she asks, and she's amused at herself that it comes out in a question—they both know he'll be there.

She rises on her toes to press her lips against his briefly, but the Arrow has other ideas about the way their kiss should go. He wraps a hand around her waist quicker than she can pull away, leaning down so that she doesn't have to stand on her toes. Common sense flies out the window the moment he pulls her bottom lip into his mouth, and suddenly there's nothing quick or chaste about it. In fact, she's about to cup his jaw with her hand when she realizes she should _not_ be doing this here. That thought causes her eyes to fly open, and she slowly pulls away, reluctant to let him go.

"I'd be more apt to share," he says finally, "if you didn't insist on wearing dresses like this one." Her face heats more than before, and she looks away. He takes advantage of the situation, though, pressing his lips against her bare shoulder, the stubble at his jaw scraping across it in a not-altogether-unpleasant way.

In fact, it’s all she can do to stop herself from kissing him again.

He seems to read _her_ expression well, too; all he offers her is a wink before firing some sort of arrow connected to a wire and swinging out of the building. She turns back to the group immediately, and her face heats further as she finds both Tommy and Barry staring at her with wide eyes.

Barry is the first to recover. "So, when I asked you, 'What's new in your life?' last week, this _wasn't_ the first thing to cross your mind?" His eyes narrow. "You held this back for conversation about the new mass spectrometers they brought in for Applied Sciences?" He shakes his head. "Sherly, we're going to have a strong talk when we get out of here."

She only raises an eyebrow at him. "What was I supposed to say?" she retorts. "'I went on a kind-of-a-date with Oliver, confronted the Dodger, managed to get a deadlock collar around my neck, watched the Arrow go all grr on the Dodger before saving my life, and somehow ended up making out with him against my front door'?" Two sets of eyebrows shoot up, and she thinks Barry might be about faint, judging by the way all color has left his face. "Somehow I felt like that couldn't be accurately expressed over the phone."

Finally, he just shakes his head. "Do you ever miss having a _normal_ life, Felicity?" he finally asks, and the use of her name lets her know it's serious this time.

She smiles. "Normal is overrated, Barry."

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance runs a hand over his face as he takes in the scene in front of him, frowning at the God-awful nightmare it's become. He'd actually been looking forward to a break, even if it was only sitting at home watching the game with a microwave dinner. This was supposed to have been an easy shift, working the Humanitarian Awards Banquet, but now his "easy night" is quickly turning into a double-shift.

Then he realizes it seems about par for the course.

The scene is nasty, with both glass and blood everywhere, even though Malcolm Merlyn has already been transported from the scene by paramedics. There's going to be hell to pay by the time all this is over, Lance knows; if it's not the younger Merlyn demanding the case be closed, it will be Laurel. Thankfully she's downstairs, having missed the rest of the night's events by picking an excellent time to duck into the bathrooms.

This will be the interesting part, Lance decides, as he watches Merlyn the junior speaking in the corner to a blonde woman in hushed tones. Her back is to him, so he can't see her face, but most of her back is exposed by the cut of the dress. Off to the side, a kid who looks about twelve stands, adding his own two-cents every now and again. Judging by the dress and the fact that they're with Merlyn, he assumes they're all witnesses, and he walks toward them.

The twelve-year-old makes a motion over the blonde's shoulder, and she turns on the spot to look behind her. Her face is oddly familiar, but he can't place her. It all clicks into place, however, when she says to him with a sly smile, "Good evening, Detective." Felicity Smoak. Of course. Something happened in this damn city, so it only makes sense she'd be here in the middle of it.

He has to admit, the girl cleans up nice; she seems at ease and casual in the formal setting, so confident in her own skin. For not the first time, Lance thinks it’s interesting how well she’s able to fit into any situation. She looks as though she belongs in a daring, backless dress at an awards banquet just as much as she belongs in the IT Department at Queen Consolidated or in the computer closet at the SCPD. And, judging by the last time he saw her, she also is rather comfortable on the back of the Hood’s bike.

He thinks that might be how she keeps ditching her police tail from time to time: she’s not using her car at night. He’s not sure how she knows about the surveillance, but she definitely does since she’s trying to avoid it.

"Miss Smoak," he says dryly with a nod of his head. Then he turns and acknowledges the other man with a curt nod. "Merlyn," he almost spits. Finally he rounds on the third man, but speaks to Felicity. "Do his parents know he's here?"

She actually laughs at that, a soft tone that seems to agree with her. Even _she's_ not usually this giddy. "This is Dr. Barry Allen," she answers with a smile, this one less calculating and like she's about to outmaneuver her favorite detective to manipulate. He recognizes the name instantly because it’s been the only name on her phone records for weeks, and she’s called him a few times regarding what is most definitely Hood business. "He's one of the past award winners, and he's my brother." She shrugs a shoulder in a self-conscious motion, and Lance understands they're probably foster siblings. "Well, sort of," confirms it for him. "I'm his plus-one for the night. Something we can help you with?"

He waves over two officers on the scene before answering, "I just need to take your statements, and then you three can leave." He relays instructions for the officers to interview the two men and then adds, "If you'll come with me, Miss Smoak."

He leads her over to another side of the room. "Want to tell me the _real_ story about what happened here?" he says dryly. No doubt she's already coached the other two about their statements, so he's far better off trying to get the information straight from the horse's mouth, as it were. Even if the damn horse is liable to bite his fingers off if he provokes it—or send an arrow-wielding vigilante after him.

"The Arrow was already here when I arrived," she answers, and he notices for the first time that she's using a different nickname for him than everyone else. The SCPD usually calls him "the Hood" and the papers call him "the Vigilante," except for that one a few months back at the very beginning. "The Arrow" didn't quite catch on, so they stopped using it. He wonders vaguely if it's the Hood's preference as far as naming goes.

"And how did you end up here?" Lance asks her, trying to put at least _some_ of this puzzle together. He's not sure the Hood would call her over something related to emergency medicine; after all, Felicity Smoak is a computer technician, not a battlefield nurse.

"I took the elevator," she answers with a partial smile, and Lance decides he does _not_ get paid well enough to put up with this girl, so he lets it go. "I probably should have called the police, but the Arrow seemed to have the situation under control. He knew the bullet was laced with curare poison, and thank God Barry was with us." At Lance's unspoken question, she clarifies, "He's a biochemist, and he does a lot of work with neurotoxins over at STAR Labs—poisons like curare." She shrugs. "Anyway, he was able to slow down the absorption—some of the paramedics said it saved Mr. Merlyn's life."

“The Arrow managed to set it up so that Tommy gave Mr. Merlyn a blood transfusion,” she continues. “I mostly just held pressure on the wound to keep it from bleeding out.” For the first time, Lance notices the blood over her hands, and he’s surprised how casual she is about the entire ordeal. He changes his mind; maybe Felicity _was_ the Hood’s first call when it came to emergency medicine.

“Anything else worth sharing?” he asks her when it’s clear she isn’t going to say anything more. He needs to have the information for his report, and he knows she’s going to give the most accurate witness statement of anyone here.

“He was shot in the arm—the Arrow, I mean.” She watches the detective for a moment before looking to the other two witnesses, and it makes Lance’s eyes even with the silver bar at her ear shaped like an arrow. Of course. She might as well be holding a neon sign that says, “I work for the Vigilante,” in bold letters. She may advertise and flaunt it, but she’s still careful; the few times she’s called anyone has been the Allen kid, and she’s subtle enough with her inquiries. By using the word “hypothetically,” she’s basically confessing to nothing more than an active imagination—even if Lance and, well, anyone with a pulse, can tell otherwise. “Maybe there would be hospital records or something,” she adds helpfully as she turns back to him, though they both know it’s anything but.

Lance frowns. “We both know he’s not going to go to a hospital with this,” he answers dryly. The last time he was injured, they found arterial spray, and even then there was nothing in the hospital reports. A fleshwound is even less likely. He hesitates before saying, “If you remember anything else, give me a call.” And then he sighs. “And be careful, Miss Smoak—something tells me you’re playing with fire.” Part of him actually wants to _tell_ her about the wiretaps, even though he knows he can’t. Still, she’s not the first girl to get caught up in the glamor of helping the Starling City Vigilante, and he doubts she’ll be the last.

She only smiles before remarking, “Fire is only dangerous if you’re not careful, Detective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "No Heroes Allowed" - Mayday Parade  
> "Ave Mary A" - P!nk  
> "I Don't Wanna" - Within Temptation  
> "Have a Nice Day" - Bon Jovi  
> "Shot in the Dark" - Within Temptation  
> "Love is a Crime" - Anastacia  
> "Love Song" - Sara Bareilles


	32. System Recovery and Restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the hospital proves soothing for all except Malcolm--he did get shot after all. But he is the bad guy in all of this mess, so don't feel _too_ sorry for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/0lmsqcJQquBGqtbPOtIhAN).
> 
> Okay, so Chapter 32 should clear up some of the questions y'all have had about Tommy and his issues. Reviews/comments are welcomed and appreciated, but thanks just for reading. :)
> 
> **Look for a new side story Sunday-Tuesday.** It will be called "Compromised Data Integrity." ;)

Felicity doesn't feel like she should be at the hospital this time, since she barely knows Malcolm Merlyn, but Oliver's fingers lacing through hers make her feel a little better about the intrusion. He seemed adamant that she come with him, and she realizes that maybe the assassination attempt shook him a little. After all, it could have been Tommy instead.

Hell, it could have even been Oliver himself. Or his mother.

Before they step into the room, she puts her other hand on his shoulder, stopping him from entering. A flash of irritation runs across his features, but it takes more than a frustrated, scared Oliver Queen to make her back down. After all, she confronted a deadly jewel thief last week—this is nothing. "Hey," she says gently, "it's okay. Malcolm is all right. Tommy is all right. _Laurel_ is all right." She lets her hand drop on his shoulder. "You don't have to be worried now."

There's a heavy moment of hesitation before Oliver finally tells her what is running through his mind: "Tommy and I... we had an argument before this happened. I'm not sure he'll want to see me after that."

It's an easy fear to dissipate for her; all it takes is a few words. "You and Tommy have been friends for a very long time, Oliver," she assures him. "No matter what, I think he'd be _more_ upset if you _didn't_ come here tonight." She smiles in reassurance. "And you two have far too much history to let one little argument end your friendship." She doesn't dare ask about the topic because there are only a few things they could argue about, and Felicity can piece together the rest for herself. She's pretty sure she already has.

There was a time when she didn't know Oliver Queen well enough to make guesses like that, but no longer.

He doesn't look convinced by her speech, but he does look a little less concerned. "You're right," he agrees, albeit a little reluctantly. He takes a deep breath before pushing open the door to Mr. Merlyn's private room, plastering a decidedly fake smile on his face. Felicity has to plaster on her own to prevent herself from calling him out on it. "I'm glad you're all right, Mr. Merlyn," Oliver offers. He still has hold of Felicity's hand, but she tries desperately not to read too much into that. After all, he probably needs the moral support right now.

Tommy and Laurel stand off to one side, and she tries to ignore the fact that Laurel's eyes keep darting to Felicity and Oliver's intertwined hands with her eyebrows narrowed. Tommy's expression is more curious, and it's focused solely on Felicity. Nervous, she pulls at the hem of her dress, and, when she looks down, she realizes that Mr. Merlyn's blood is still on one of her knees. She fastens one of the buttons on her black peacoat, letting it drape over the stain.

"Well, thank you for coming down," Mr. Merlyn replies, "but I'm perfectly fine." He chuckles, and something about him screams _slimy_ to Felicity. "Well, fine aside from the bullet wound, of course, but it could have been much worse if Dr. Allen and the Vigilante didn't show up." He squints at Felicity, studying her for a moment, probably taking in the way her hair is starting to fall out of its clip and the lipstick that was worn off by a particularly eager kiss with a vigilante. "You were there with Dr. Allen tonight," he says suddenly. "Thank you."

She waves a hand, dismissing the thought. "I didn't really do anything," she insists. "I just applied pressure when the Arrow started bossing everyone around." She notices Laurel's eyes narrow slightly at the use of _the Arrow_ , and Felicity realizes that she's slipped; no one else seems to call him that. She rushes on to add, "Barry did all the hard work."

Felicity releases Oliver's hand to walk over to Tommy, putting her hand on his shoulder. "How are you holding up?" she asks, and she's not just asking about the way his father nearly died tonight. After all, she's almost certain he knows the Arrow's name, and there's definitely no love lost there.

His smile is fake, and his eyes aren't as light and playful as they usually are. "Fine," he assures her. "Just a lot to process, Smoaky." The nickname assures her that his issues aren't with her, and she takes a deep breath. Tommy has somehow come an important part of her life—just as important as Oliver, in his own way—and she doesn't want to lose him.

She turns to Laurel with a smile. "So, Gorgeous Laurel,"—she uses the "gorgeous" right from Tommy's own dialogue, and he actually _blushes_ a little when Laurel looks at him—"can I have permission to hug?" She motions between herself and Tommy, just to clarify.

Laurel looks at her as though she should be part of some lab experiment—or perhaps as though she already is—before she breaks into a soft smile, waving a hand in a by-all-means gesture. Felicity wraps her arms around Tommy's neck. His arms go around her. "I'm sorry about everything tonight," she says to him. "I can't even imagine."

He grins at her as she pulls away. "Thanks for being an awesome friend, Smoaky." His eyes dart over her shoulder to Oliver, and his grin turns mischievous before dropping a kiss on her cheek. Felicity, predictably, goes crimson, and Tommy winks at her. "I don't know where I'd be without your excellent advice."

"Cold, alone, pining Gorgeous Laurel, and having indiscriminate, meaningless sex with random women," she deadpans, which earns her a laugh from Tommy _and_ Laurel. She turns back to Oliver, and she notes yet again that one of his fists are clenched and his jaw is taut over her and Tommy. She sends an accusatory glance back to Merlyn (because they both know he did it on purpose), whose only response is to wink at her.

"Speaking of advice," Tommy says slowly, placing his hand on her back and ushering toward the door, "I actually need some right now. Can I talk to you outside for a second?" He looks at Oliver with part of a smile. "I promise I'll give her back to you when I'm done." Felicity goes crimson again, and Tommy shuts the door behind him.

Quietly, he says to her, "Felicity, you know I care about you, right?" He's serious for once in his life, and she can't trust herself to speak. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't want to go pick out curtains or anything, but I care about you in the platonic sense. Thea cares about you. Barry obviously cares about you." His eyes go serious before he continues, "And if Ollie isn't madly in love with you, I'm Britney Spears." Felicity snorts and opens her mouth, but Tommy cuts her off before she can speak. "And I know every single one of us would be devastated if you ended up in a hospital bed, a jail cell, or..." He trails off, swallowing. "Or worse."

He holds up his hands. "God knows I shouldn't tell _anyone_ how to live their life, but I don't think it's a good idea to start a relationship with a wanted criminal—especially when you don't know his name." He probably sees the defiance in her eyes (because she's not trying to hide it), and he sighs. "All I ask is that you _promise_ me that you'll be careful. Don't take any unnecessary risks, don't run around and try to play hero. Just be Felicity Smoak, and do whatever the hell you do for the Arrow, okay?"

"I don't do anything too dangerous," she assures him, "and I promise that my job is being stuck down in the lair looking at a computer screen." She doesn't mention the Dodger thing because she doesn't think now is the time. "I'm careful, Tommy."

He nods once and opens his mouth to say something, but Oliver steps out of the room and into the hall, and he gives Felicity a pointed glance. She takes the hint—he wants to talk to Tommy alone for a moment—and so she pats his shoulder before walking further down the hall. She catches the words, "Listen, Tommy, I..." before she's out of range of the conversation. Whatever they say takes quite a while, with a lot of nodding on both parts. Finally, she sees Tommy grin, and she knows they're good.

Oliver walks back to her with a smile on his face, and it puts one on her own. "I take it you two made up?" she asks, and she takes his wide smile for confirmation. "I told you that it would be fine."

"You did," he agrees as his fingers find hers again, "and you were right." He squeezes her hand, gratitude written all over his features. "Thank you."

She shrugs. "What are friends for?" she replies wryly. It doesn't have the intended effect; his smile falters ever so slightly before it's replaced with the fake smile, and he drops her hand like she's burned him. Suddenly her hand feels cold, so she reaches over and takes his this time, and the corners of his mouth turn upward in a genuine fashion again. Something flickers through his eyes, and he lifts their hands to press his lips against the back of hers. It's that action that makes her pull away and pat his shoulder because that is _not_ something friends do.

It shouldn't matter, but it does.

She decides that she's going back home to dig through a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and process tonight's turn of events, possibly by watching something she considers comforting. Her Disney collection beckons.

And, besides, Barry won't object to _Tangled_.

 

* * *

 

Tommy and Oliver have always been close; it's a fact as certain to Tommy as the sun shining—or as the clients leaving Verdant just a mixed drink away from alcohol poisoning. The Queens and the Merlyns have practically ruled Starling City side by side for generations, and so Tommy thinks it was almost predestined that he and Ollie would end up as friends.

But no one told him they'd grow up as brothers.

That's what they've become over the years. Biologically speaking, the two aren't related, but there's a certain amount of camaraderie that comes from burying a parent together. Tommy practically grew up in the Queen household—especially after his dad left when his mom died—and a few days ago, he would have said that he knew everything there was to know about Oliver Queen.

But then he'd pulled back that hood a few hours ago, and Tommy realized that he hasn't known Ollie for five years.

It's a special kind of betrayal, one that ripped him apart, made him doubt everything he'd ever believed about his friend. Now the puzzle of Ollie is clear, so many things that weren't before—the running around at night, the way he ditched his bodyguard, the dark void that entered his eyes when he'd told Tommy that, if he hurt Laurel, he would snap his neck. Hell, even the "false" accusations that Ollie was the Hood seem to have a more ominous way about them: the police had no proof, and Oliver could have _literally_ gotten away with murder.

So, when Ollie exits the hospital room and Felicity walks away to give them privacy, Tommy looks at his friends with new eyes. Really, he blames himself as much as he blames Ollie; Tommy should never have believed that the man who came back from a deserted island was the same man he used to party with five years prior. It's just as naïve as Oliver thinking that Tommy wouldn't eventually realize the truth.

Oliver hesitates, sighing deeply before starting, "Look, Tommy, I..." He hesitates again, and even through his anger, it hurts him to watch his friend in so much pain. "I know you probably hate me—and you probably should—but just give me a chance to explain." The words don't come for a long time, and, when they do, they're low and full of grief. "When... When the boat went down, only three of us survived, Tommy." He looks up at his friend from under his eyelashes, and Tommy has no idea what Oliver sees because he also has no idea what he's thinking. "My father, the captain, and I made it onto the life raft. But... there wasn't enough food for the three of us, and there was no land in sight."

He won't look at Tommy now, and he can feel his stomach drop because whatever is coming won't be good. "So Dad, he... he told me that he didn't help build Starling City, and that he and the names in the journal were draining it, destroying it—flourishing on the hard work of others that they stepped on to get where they are. Then he asked me to right his wrongs, to fix his mistakes." Only then does he look at Tommy. "Then he pulled a gun, put a bullet in the ship's captain, and then he put the gun to his own head." He runs a hand over his face. "He sacrificed himself, Tommy, so that I would live. The least I can do is take down the men poisoning this city—fulfill his dying wish."

Tommy can only think of one thing to say: "Jesus, Oliver."

It doesn't deter Ollie in the slightest. "That's why I didn't tell you—because I couldn't. It's too dangerous, and I've tried to keep every one of you out of it." He sighs. "But I can't do this alone, so I had to let people in. Diggle"—Tommy's eyebrows go up at the mention of Oliver's bodyguard—"was an obvious choice because of his military background, so I recruited him to help." He stops short, choosing his words carefully before saying, "And Felicity"—he chuckles in spite of the situation—"Felicity recruited _me_." He shakes his head, suddenly smiling. "I was trying to get the information off of Deadshot's laptop a few months ago at QC, and she was working late. She yelled at me for using her computer without her permission, and then she pulled information off the hard drive for me."

Tommy can't help but chuckle, too. "That sounds like Felicity," he agrees, but then his smile fades. "You do realize you're putting her in danger, don't you? And then you're... _with_ her as the Arrow, while lying to her as yourself?" He hesitates, but he doesn't know any other way to say it. "If you let her figure this out herself, she's going to walk out of your life and never look back. She's going to think you played her, even though we both know that it's the opposite of the truth."

"You think I don't know that?" Oliver retorts, his tone dark, biting, and—a new one on Tommy— _bitter_. Five years of emotion show through, and for once, Ollie looks... _damaged_. "Do you think I don't think about that— _all_ of that—every day of my life?" He runs a hand over his face again. "Last week she confronted the Dodger and ended up with a _bomb collar_ around her neck, Tommy." He looks more tortured than Tommy has ever seen him. "She's headstrong and fearless—and I think that scares me more than any goddamn criminal on those streets." He chuckles bitterly. "They're her best qualities, but they're also the ones that make it even harder for me to sleep at night."

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and then that calm façade Tommy has come to know in the past few months covers his face again. This time, though, it isn't a mask; he's genuinely at peace with what he's about to say. "And I know how upset she's going to be about the deception. I let the lies go on too long, and now I'm more afraid of losing her than lying to her every day. When she finds out the truth, it's going to destroy both of us." He looks far too calm when he continues, "I've known from the first moment I met her that she was eventually going to walk away, and whatever we have won't change that—not after all the lies I've put her through. I don't like it"—he chuckles bitterly again—"and it will probably be the final nail in my coffin, but I've made peace with it."

Tommy can't stop the laugh that escapes him, and there's no humor in the sound. "Never thought I'd see the day when you'd fall this hard for a girl," he says with a smile. "What happened to that guy who used to invite three girls at a time back to his private booth at the club?"

Oliver chuckles, too. "He was shipwrecked on an island whose name translates into 'Purgatory' and had to grow up." He claps Tommy on the shoulder. "More importantly, I could say the same to you." He hesitates. "You and Laurel, you two have something that she and I never had. We were never right for each other. And I'm glad that she's happy with you." He smiles. "And, most importantly, I'm glad my best friend has someone in his life who loves him just as much as he loves her."

Tommy's eyes widen because he can't believe the level of maturity coming from his friend's mouth. Oliver is right; he has definitely grown up on that island—or perhaps someone else has convinced him to grow up. "She's been good for you, Ollie," he says finally. "No matter what happens, I think that's probably the one thing that's true."

His face falls a little. "I'm not sure it will last when she leaves," he admits.

Tommy offers him a grin. "Well, you'll always have me to whip you back into shape, Ollie," he answers, earning himself a look that is afraid to hope. Tommy scoffs at his friend. "What, you think I'm gonna let you do this on your own? No matter what, I'm always going to be there to give you moral support." He chuckles. "Or _immoral_ support, as the case may be."

Oliver actually grins, and it reminds Tommy of the old Ollie for just a minute. Then he decides that the old Ollie is still there, only just more mature and a whole hell of a lot more traumatized. "Thank you, Tommy."

Tommy shrugs. "It's what we do, Ollie—we look out for each other. Because God knows no one else will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Hero/Heroine (Acoustic Version)" - Boys Like Girls  
> "Lost in You" - Three Days Grace  
> "Mockingbird" - Rob Thomas  
> "Drowning" - Backstreet Boys  
> "Stop" - Matchbox Twenty  
> "Lessons in Love (All Day, All Night)" - Neon Trees  
> "Leave" - Matchbox Twenty


	33. Malware Removal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity returns from Central City to find a surprise, but it still isn't a box of puppies. It's the bad kind again, like having your boyfriend's ex break into your house. But that's just a general example and in no way indicates the plot of this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/5VFDQpJzumBQnRkKcqOpxh).
> 
> Before you start pelting me with rotten vegetables, I'd just like to say I could have done this at the end of every chapter. But I refrained because I love you all. Know that before you respond to this chapter. All comments and reviews are appreciated, if only to scream at me for what I've done. ;)
> 
> Also, if you're expecting an apology for this... not happening. I'm sorry about many things, but not this chapter. Ever.

Frowning at her cell phone as she tries the number again, Felicity slides the key into her door absently and lets herself in, dragging her suitcase with her. The three days in Central City have been good for her, allowing her to unwind and help Barry forget his grief in his darkest hour. In Central City, there are no vigilantes, no computers demanding attention, no unhinged women who may or may not use Felicity in their plot for revenge. But now the vacation is over, and it’s time for reality to set in.

Which would be aided if the Arrow would answer his cell phone.

They’ve talked at least once a day—sometimes more than once—since he’s been gone, and she knows he’s having trouble tracking down Helena. She’s been leaving a very small digital footprint, and, with Felicity six hundred miles away and without her prized computers, it’s been like fighting a minotaur with one hand tied behind her back.

Still, more troubling is the fact that the Arrow isn’t answering his phone. Since transitioning to her burner phone, he’s answered in the first three rings. It’s gone to voicemail twice already tonight, and, as it plays the generic message once again, she can’t help but wonder if something horrible happened while her train was in that tunnel and she couldn’t get cell reception. Part of her wants to try the _other_ number she has for him, but she thinks that would be an awkward conversation she’s not yet prepared to have.

She stops to lock her door before trying again, opting for safety first. She drops her purse on the table and drops her suitcase next to it, focusing only on her cell phone’s contacts list. She struggles for a moment as she thinks about pulling up the GPS tracker, but then decides that it’s not time to panic yet. Just as she’s about to call Diggle for her own peace of mind, the Arrow’s number shows up on her screen and she breathes a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God,” she sighs when she answers. “I was starting to get panicked—it’s not like you to ignore your cell phone.” She runs a hand over the top of her head. “Are you hurt? Is everything all right? How have things—?”

“Felicity,” he cuts her off gently, reminding her that he actually has to have time to answer those questions. “We’re fine—we haven’t engaged.” A rush of static that’s probably a sigh comes through the speakers. “She’s keeping a low profile, only showing up when she knows we can’t touch her without revealing ourselves.” He hesitates before saying, “She’s been sneaking around your apartment”—a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold works its way down Felicity’s spine—”but we can’t keep watch on her with your police tail sitting outside. They would have noticed if we had the van parked outside for three days while they knew you were gone. Lock yourself in your apartment,” he demands now, and she knows that’s something akin to panic in his voice, “and wait for me to come get you.”

“I told you—” she starts to remind him, to tell him that she doesn’t need all of this protection, though she knows his heart is in the right place. They’ve had this conversation before—multiple times—and every time he ignores her and insists this is the right choice. Part of her wonders if she’s missing something, if he knows something about Helena Bertinelli that she doesn’t.

“I told _you_ ,” he insists firmly, “that I would do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” There's a chuckle before he continues, “Even if it meant camping out on your fire escape for three weeks.” She has to bite back a sound of surprise as she realizes he’s quoted her word for word, from a conversation they had _months_ ago. At first she's surprised, but then she decides that he might have a better eye for detail than she'd previously thought. "I'm bringing you here, and you're staying until Helena is no longer an issue."

She frowns, trying to find anything to convince him otherwise. "What about Saphira?" she asks finally. "I mean, she's boarding right now, but I'm supposed to pick her up tomorrow. She can't stay there indefinitely." A note of sadness enters her tone as she continues, "I don't want her to think I've abandoned her." With a heaving sigh, she rolls her suitcase into her room, preparing to stock it with clean clothes, just in case. As an afterthought, she throws her purse over her arm again; she's learned from the last break-in not to keep anything so important near the door.

Before the Arrow can propose a plan of action, a violent banging comes from the door, and she jumps. It's clearly not a knock, but instead some attempt to knock it down or break through the locks. Felicity freezes in some semblance of panic, but the Arrow's voice draws her back to her senses. "What was that noise?" he demands, and something is... _wrong_ in his tone of voice, something that sends tendrils of dread down into her stomach. It sounds almost like _panic_ , but the Arrow _doesn't_ panic.

"I don't know," she whispers in a strangled voice, waiting in her bedroom. She immediately takes her second cell phone and her wallet from the purse still on her arm, shoving them into the pockets of her purple peacoat. She's not going to be weighed down by a bag if she has to run.

"I'm on my way right now," the Arrow assures her in a voice that's meant to be calm, but she can hear the edge underneath. She knows what that means: he's just as terrified as she is right now. "Don't hang up, but call the police. They have eyes on your apartment, so their response time will be better than mine. Lance is on duty tonight—he'll keep you safe until I get there."

Felicity can't help but think they might be jumping the gun a little, and so she hesitates ever so slightly. "I think we're being a little hasty," she starts, and she has to stop herself from saying his name. Now isn't exactly the time to let him know.

"Felicity, please," he answers quietly, and she no longer has the ability to deny him anything. It would be one thing if she was the only one scared, but that he's scared, too, makes her realize that he knows this isn't good.

The noise comes again, and Felicity grabs the Bluetooth receiver he gave her from the table, twisting it over her ear and connecting it to her phone. "Okay, you can still hear me, right?" she asks, and she receives a murmur of confirmation in response. She pulls out the phone registered to her name, dialing the number she entered for Detective Lance ages ago, at the Arrow's behest.

Lance picks up distractedly after four rings and she can hear her voice starting to quaver as she says quietly, "Detective, it's Felicity Smoak. There's someone trying to break into my apartment." As she says the words, the attempt becomes successful, and all it takes is the crossbow before Felicity is convinced. She slides out of the window, onto the fire escape. "Correction: they _did_ break into my apartment," she continues. "I'm on the fire escape and I'm heading into the garage."

"I'm right outside," Lance assures her, his voice suddenly turning harder than it usually is. "Get out now, and wait for _someone_ "—the way he says it is loaded, and she realizes he's referring to the Arrow—"who can protect you."

She does as he says, praying that her feet will carry her fast enough. "I'm pulling into the parking garage right now," the Arrow's synthesized voice says in her ear. "I'm going to pull behind your car, so meet me there."

He's already there on his bike by the time she makes it, and he releases a breath as he extends her the motorcycle helmet. She buckles it in record time, and her arms barely wrap around him when he surges forward, out of the garage. She breathes a sigh of relief as she leans against him, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle, mostly for her own comfort. She knows better now, knows that his driving, while unorthodox, is effective.

She takes a moment to dial Lance's number again, and she hears it through the Bluetooth headset. "Lance," he answers gruffly, sounding more alert—and more frustrated—than before.

"Detective," she says, her voice still a little high from the excitement, though she feels like she can relax a little now. "Did you catch her? The woman who broke into my apartment?"

"She was already gone when we got here," he answers, and she can see him frowning at the scene. "It doesn't look like anything has been tampered with, but I'll let you see if anything is missing in the morning." He sighs in a way that says _I am not paid enough to deal with this_ , and she can't help but agree in her own circumstances. "Speaking of which, we're gonna need a statement from you in the morning. Tonight, the most important part is that you're safe."

"I'm going to be staying with a friend," she answers, leaving a subtle hint for the detective. "I'll be fine for the night."

"I'm sure you will," he answers dryly, and she can't help the smile that turns the corners of her mouth up. "He seems to have a thing for saving people—hero complex or something like that."

"He does have a hero complex," she agrees, "but I'm not exactly in a position to complain right now." She tightens her arm around him further. "Not that I'd want to, anyway. It's one of my favorite qualities." The Arrow pats her knee in gratitude of his defense, and she has a feeling that would have earned her a kiss under different circumstances.

She ends the call to Lance just as they arrive at Verdant, wobbling as she slides off the motorcycle. A gloved hand at her elbow steadies her even though she doesn't need it, and then his hands are on her, one brushing the errant strands of her ponytail out of her face and the other cupping her jaw. "Are you all right?" he asks her gently, and she nods.

"No worse for the wear," she assures him with a smile she doesn't exactly feel. Judging by the way his frown follows, she thinks he might know that.

He releases a breath like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. "If I'm not allowed to scare you," he murmurs, reminding her of the night where Moira Queen nearly killed him, "then you shouldn't be allowed to scare me."

"I'm trying not to," she answers dryly. "I didn't want to flee through the fire escape any more than you wanted me to." She pokes his shoulder as he enters the code to the lair's entrance. "Fire escapes are your thing, not mine."

He allows himself a slight chuckle before retorting dryly, "Then you should leave it to an expert."

 

* * *

 

Oliver watches Felicity as she walks into the room, her arms wrapping around her middle. He knows that she's afraid, that she's in shock, that she doesn't quite know how to handle what has happened. Maybe he should tell her all of it—that Helena already knows how important she is to him, which is why she would go after Felicity first.

Still, despite that, she manages to pull herself together, to take a deep breath and start moving toward a goal. Oliver has never noticed that the two of them have that in common: they’re both able to push their feelings aside to do what is necessary. It’s something he’s never given much thought to, but now that it’s right in front of him, he recognizes it. Of course, she handles herself with a style and poise that Oliver has never had, but it’s still something familiar.

Her footsteps take her over to the duffle bag stored under the shelving in the corner, the one containing the spare change of clothes she brought in with her not long after starting with them. She rummages through it for a moment, frowning when she apparently doesn’t find what she needs. A huff escapes her as she rises to her feet, turning to him while biting her lip. “Is it okay if I borrow another set of clothes from you? Apparently I didn’t think I’d need pajamas.” She sighs. “Which, frankly, is ridiculous because I’ve spent more time here than I have at home for the past few weeks. I should have thought…” She trails off with sharp, wild hand motions. “And I’m babbling. Again. Stop me, _please_ , I beg of you.”

“I like listening to you,” he answers with a smile, but as her brows knit together he realizes that he’s said that to her before. He can’t seem to stop the slips that he knows she’s starting to notice; they come at the most inopportune moments, almost as though her verbal slips are contagious. Pressing forward, he continues, "And feel free to use whatever you want.” For once, the truth is what comes out: “I have nothing to hide from you anymore.” It also helps to remind her that, whenever she’s ready for the truth, she can remove the mask at any time. It’s the most he can give her; he won’t lie to her anymore, but he also won’t reveal himself when it will be the thing that tears her away from him.

She mutters something under her breath, and his eyes pick out the words _wish_ and _same_. Even though he understands the phrase, it confuses him; Felicity isn’t the kind to keep secrets, especially not from him. She’s the definition of transparent—or so he thought—and it makes him more than a little nervous. She brought his mother’s book to him as soon as she figured it out, so any secrets she’s hiding can’t be good.

He walks over to her, and he can’t stop himself from cupping her jaw, tilting her head up to look at him. He studies her expression for a long moment, and he notices she’s biting her lip, that her eyes won’t meet his. Part of him wonders if he’s already lost her, but then he knows it doesn’t make sense; even with the threat of Helena, Felicity wouldn’t be in the lair unless she wanted to be.

“I’m going to go get changed,” she starts abruptly, color heating her cheeks when she realizes she’s spoken a little loudly. She takes his hand and squeezes it before walking away, so he knows she isn’t mad, but something is definitely very wrong—the kind of wrong that makes his stomach drop. Still, he doesn’t call her on it; Felicity is entitled to have her secrets, even if he wishes she didn’t. Most of him is hoping that she’ll tell him when she’s ready.

She slips through the door, and he takes a moment to note that she doesn’t lock it, a surprising display of trust that he appreciates. Trying not to dwell on it or the direction of his thoughts, he unclips the strap on the quiver before laying it across his station used for making arrowheads, peels the wristband full of darts away. He can't bring himself to pull the switchblade out of his pocket, though; the idea of being unarmed, even while alone, makes him feel vulnerable.

Oliver wanders back to the training area to clean up some of the mess he left behind in his rush to get to her, and his thoughts seem to wander back to Felicity changing in the downstairs bathroom. That she's changing into a set of his clothes makes it even more difficult to concentrate, and he vaguely wonders if she'll grab another v-neck shirt. He rather liked the sight of her in the last one.

She walks out after a few minutes, his shirt knotted about her waist, padding along in her sock feet, shoes in hand. She drops them by her duffle bag before walking back to him, smiling. It's not the smartest move on her part; when she stands that close to him, he can tell her eyes are red-rimmed as though she's been crying.

Oliver doesn't say anything because they don't really need words, only gathers her up in his arms. Felicity takes a deep yet strangled breath, clinging to him the same way she did after things escalated with the Dodger. He presses a kiss to her hair and she takes another deep breath, as if trying to move forward and regroup from the temporary break in composure.

"She's not going to touch you," he assures her, and he thinks he might be making the promise to himself more than her. "I promised you I'd keep you safe, Felicity." She pulls away, nodding and wiping at her eyes, her face coloring as though she's embarrassed by it. Because of that, he knows better than to draw attention to it and upset her further.

"I know," she answers with resolve and faith he doesn't deserve after tonight's chaos, but he admires it anyway. She seems to be able to keep her faith even when things go wrong, and he wishes he wasn't so jaded by the world that he could be that way, too. Then she lets out a bitter laugh, and he realizes that maybe she's a little jaded, though she somehow seems to keep a better lid on it than him. "Part of me wishes she had just dragged me out of there screaming so that at least I wouldn't have to spend the next few weeks looking twice over my shoulder, wondering what she's going to do next."

"And that's the last thing I want," he answers, perhaps more sharply than he should. "I know how Helena thinks. She's ruthless and cold, Felicity, and she won't hesitate to kill anyone who stands in her way. Without thinking about the casualties, about the body count she leaves behind." He hesitates. "A friend told me that a person can only change once. My change turned me into this"—good or bad, he'll let her decide—"but, when her fiancé was killed, it turned her into something dark and twisted."

"And yours turned you into a hero," she answers without missing a beat. It's a title he doesn't deserve, but one he's trying to live up to. She bites her lip for a moment, and part of him wants to bite it for her. "It's not about the change—it's about how we handle them. The world broke Helena, but you're not like her." They're the words he probably needs to hear most right now, and, for the life of him, Oliver can't figure out how she knows to use them. "The world _tried_ to break you, but you're a survivor." She takes his hand. "It's going to take something bigger than circumstance to turn you into that."

Oliver doesn't quite know how to tell her that the one thing keeping him grounded is a blonde IT specialist he didn't even know eight months ago.

He tries to convey it when he kisses her, and that same thrill of amazement runs through him as the very first time. Oliver has no idea when he'll finally remember that she's not going to push him away, but he hopes it never happens. It's a thrill like no other to realize she's kissing him when she should be running, that she's trusting him so completely when he's done nothing to deserve it.

She pulls away after a moment—always too soon—and she blurts a little loudly, "We should go to bed." His eyebrows go up of their own accord, and she makes a short strangled sound before continuing, "God, no— _no_. I didn't mean... I meant that you should get some sleep and I should get some sleep. Separately." She does a half-hearted shrug. "Well, not separately since there's only one bed, but the _literal_ 'let's go to bed,' not the one used as a euphemism for sex." It's a word he wishes she hadn't thrown out; his fantasies are under tenuous control as it is, without the thought of her talking about going to bed together. She bites her lip. "And I shouldn't have said that because now you have a weird look on your face, and I probably freaked you out. Sorry. I have no idea why I do this—it's just that the words—"

"Felicity," he says sharply, with a smile. There's something absolutely wonderful and charming about the way she lets her words flow without thinking, something completely transparent and open that has been missing from his life for so long. He nudges her toward the corner before saying with a smile, "Get in bed."

She only gapes at him for a long moment, her face flushing as he imagines her thoughts take a less-than-pure turn. In a surprising turn of events, she's speechless and she apparently decides that answering that statement would only lead to more innuendos—accidental or otherwise, as the case may be.

He's tentative to slide into place beside her now that he can; he's been wanting to be by her side for ages, and now that he's given the opportunity, he hesitates. At the last minute, he decides to lay atop the blanket. He knows he won't sleep—he hasn't since Helena's reappearance in Starling City—and what little rest he's received in the last three days has been in stolen moments, awakened by memories of the island and almost prophetic glimpses into what could happen to the people he cares about.

He expects her to understand his hesitance and display her own, but she doesn't. As soon as he's next to her, she rolls over, pulling herself over to him and wrapping her arm around his waist. Almost without thinking, he pulls her into him, feeling her breath hot against his shoulder. Unable to resist, he kisses her hair. He's quiet for a long moment, so long that her breathing goes deep as though she's sleeping. "Goodnight, Felicity," he murmurs to her.

She sighs once before answering, "Goodnight, Oliver." Then her eyes go wide, and he thinks he’s probably mirroring her expression. _She knows_. The first thought is relief for not having to tell the lie, but the second quickly sobers him.

_She’s gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> “That’s What You Get” - Paramore  
> "Do Your Worst" - New Years Day  
> "The World is Ugly" - My Chemical Romance  
> "It Will Rain" - Bruno Mars  
> "I Don't Wanna" - Within Temptation  
> "Lessons in Love (All Day, All Night)" - Neon Trees  
> "Lost in Paradise" - Evanescence


	34. File Decryption and Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver waits for Felicity to ream him because he's been lying to her since he met her. But, in his defense, he has been a pretty awesome vigilante boyfriend. Really, can you name one better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/4mWHzp8KCE7U8cOHDC0B4f).
> 
> I am completely blown away by the reviews and comments I've received on the last chapter. Life has been hectic and insane, but I've read them all and I appreciate them more than you all could ever imagine. You're absolutely amazing, each and every one of you. :)
> 
> This chapter will answer some of the questions I think you've had recently. This one was difficult because of what I did, but I'm pleased with the end result. Reviews/comments are awesome (and read, even if I don't have time to answer), but thanks for just reading this much! :)
> 
> **On another note, there will be no new chapter next week.** It's Thanksgiving here in the US and I'm going to be on the road, so I'll see you guys again in December, and we'll pick up with the same every Thursday update schedule then. I'm taking a one week hiatus for the holidays, but then we'll return.

Felicity is almost asleep when she hears him murmur goodnight, and then the words are out of her mouth without thinking: "Goodnight, Oliver." She doesn't even realize she's said them, but then he tenses, holding his breath.

She pulls back immediately, cursing her particularly wild, uncontrollable mouth for this one. She always said it would get her into trouble, and this just proves it. "I'm sorry," she says immediately, "I should have—" She bites her lip, unsure of what she should have done. "I wanted to wait until you were ready to know, I swear." She sits up, and he follows as she crosses her legs beneath her, prepared to explain her deception. "I should have told you when I figured it out, but I thought you didn't want me to know, and—"

“Felicity,” he cuts her off gently, though she notes that he isn’t smiling. He seems to war with an idea, with his next words before they finally come out as, “How long have you known?”

She bites her lip for a long moment. “It’s kind of a long story,” she warns him, but he waves a hand to assure her he’s ready to hear. “I had my first questions about you being the Arrow,” she starts quietly, “during the thing at Verdant, when the club caught fire. You walked by one of the flames, and I saw what color your eyes were, and the thought occurred to me.” She shakes her head, chuckling a little. “But then I thought that was ridiculous, because I equated you—Oliver-you—with being someone who sat on an island for five years, roasting lizards to eat and drinking from coconuts.” She looks at him carefully to make sure she hasn’t offended him, only to find that he’s trying to fight a smile, meaning she’s in good territory.

She takes a deep breath. “So I pushed the thought away. Then I found that Diggle was your associate, and I thought it was interesting that both of us knew Oliver-you and ended up working for the Arrow.” She waves a hand. “But Diggle is ex-military and you've turned me into a hacker along the way, so I didn’t think much about it. I thought you were collecting allies based on skill, and, well, the Queen family employs over a hundred thousand people in this city in some way or another, so I pushed it aside.

“And then Arrow-you did so many things that reminded me of Oliver-you, but I just couldn’t reconcile the fact that Oliver-you could fight, could use a bow.” She waves a hand, motioning to the way he’s dressed now. “Oliver-you doesn’t seem as… heroic as this side of you.” She chuckles, rubbing at the back of her head. “But I guess you meant it that way so that you wouldn’t be suspected.”

She points a finger at him. “But then things happened with Tommy’s dad, and I knew something was different when you gave him your name right away.” She shook her head. “You didn’t do that with me, and I’d bet you didn’t do that with Diggle, either. So I just figured you had to know him.”

She bites her lip again. “And then he made that comment about not trusting you,” she says finally. “I saw your face fall, and I knew it _hurt_ you. So Tommy had to mean something to you—to be someone close to you—because his dig was enough to hurt you." She shrugs. “At that point, it was obvious. Tommy has one close friend, and I couldn’t deny it any longer. And it explains all the things I didn’t understand before, like the way Saphira reacted to you. And the whole thing between you and Helena. And so many other things.”

He’s so quiet for a moment that she decides he isn’t going to speak. She reaches a hand out slowly, her fingers touching the fabric of the hood for the very first time. “Is it okay if I…?” she asks hesitantly, and he nods in response, his mouth set into a grim line. For a moment, Felicity wonders why he seems so glum, but then she knows he’ll reveal his secrets when he’s ready.

He always has before.

Her hands pull back the hood slowly, and he doesn’t move, letting her lower it. The mask comes off next, and she finds her hands shaking. Sure, she knew it was Oliver when she started this endeavor, but knowing something and seeing something, she decides, are two very different things.

He won’t look at her, though, even as he turns off the voice modulator. Finally he says in a very low voice, “But I don’t understand.” He sounds confused, his brow furrowing as though she’s the biggest contradiction he’s ever met. “You’re still here.”

It's her turn to be confused, watching him with narrowed eyebrows before asking, "Where else would I be?"

"I thought you would be angry," he tries again, studying her expression as if he's waiting for the dam to break and all the emotion to come out at once. It would be comical under different circumstances, Felicity thinks; the big, bad Arrow is afraid that a little blonde IT girl will yell at him.

"Oh, I was furious," she answers instantly, nodding her head. He flinches, clearly expecting more. "That's why I didn't talk to you on the car ride to the hospital—I was thinking of ways to yell at you." She waves a hand. "I wasn't mad at you for protecting your identity—I understand that—but I..." She hesitates before selecting her next words. "I thought you were leading me on—that I was just another girl in Oliver Queen's revolving door of women." He opens his mouth to speak, but she holds up an index finger with her most intimidating don't-you-dare-talk face, and his mouth closes immediately. "But then I thought about it before confronting you, and I realized that if that was the case, you wouldn't have kissed me as the Arrow—you would have made that move as yourself." A nervous laugh escapes her. "And then, after the anger faded—that was probably the mint chocolate chip ice cream I was stress-eating when you were there that night—and I realized it made things easier for me." She bites her lip, and he urges her on with his eyes. "It was going to be difficult to explain that I had feelings for both of you."

He just marvels at her for a long moment before pulling off his gloves, then reaches out to touch her face with one of the most glorious smiles Felicity has ever seen on his face. "The worst part of deceiving you," Oliver says quietly, rubbing his thumb across her cheekbone, "is that I can't ever touch you the way I want." It takes her a minute, but she realizes that this is the first time he's ever touched her face without gloves, and a warm, callused thumb runs across her cheekbone. "I thought you would run," he admits finally. "That you would hate me for lying to you and I would lose you."

"Hey," she answers sharply, tilting his face so that he's looking at her. "That is _never_ going to happen." She shakes her head. "You're not going to lose me."

Just like that, he kisses her again, this one new and familiar all at once. She knows the way his mouth feels against hers, but the desperation from before is gone, as though he's finally accepting that there is nothing he could do to scare her off, to make her run from him. He's gentle this time, and there's no heat to the feeling, just the bliss of having each other.

When they break apart, he unzips the jacket to expose a black t-shirt much like the one she stole from his storage cabinet only moments ago. When Felicity nestles back under the blankets, Oliver slides under them, pulling her in tight as he did only moments ago. But now there's no tension, no looming sense of guilt caused by the secrets they were both keeping.

Felicity doesn't think she's ever felt so safe before; Oliver's arm drapes over her waist, and hers falls over his. Her nose presses into the fabric of his shirt, and she can feel his chin above her head.

"I know I'm being overprotective," he says to her in a low, quiet voice, "but I'm only trying to keep you safe." It sounds almost apologetic, and Felicity understands: he doesn't mean to seem demanding, but, at the same time, her safety is important to him.

She frowns, pursing her lips slightly. "I know you are," she assures him, "but I don't understand why she would choose to come after _me_." Oliver tenses ever so slightly, and she knows for certain now that there is something he isn't telling her. She chuckles slightly. "I mean, I'm just some random blonde she met at a party once." She remembers the term Diggle muttered under his breath earlier. "I guess Digg was right—she _is_ your 'psycho ex-girlfriend.'"

"That was the night that Helena ended things with me," he answers slowly, and her eyes go wide. They had seemed very much together in that point in time; she always assumed that Oliver had been the one to end things. "She told me she felt betrayed because I was interested in someone other than her." He allows himself a soft sound of amusement, one so low that Felicity feels it in his chest rather than hears it, and then he pulls back ever so slightly so that he can look at her. "Even then," he offers slowly in a quiet tone, "she knew I was in love with you. She knew before I did."

It's funny, Felicity marvels for a small moment, how one simple, four-letter word can turn her world upside-down. Her breath hitches as the L-word leaves his lips, though there's really no reason for it; she's known about his feelings for a very long time—both as the Arrow and as Oliver Queen. But, like with the difference between knowing the Arrow's identity and seeing Oliver under the hood, knowing and confirming it are two very different things.

It takes her a moment to regain the ability to speak, and she watches Oliver's carefully guarded expression, unsure of how she'll respond to his confession of sorts. "Well," she offers a little flippantly, "it took me longer to realize I was in love with you, but, in my defense, I _did_ think you were two different people." She taps her chin absently. "This is going to make for an interesting, 'How did you meet?' story one day."

This time his chuckle is warm, louder, and he pulls her hand away from her chin to weave his fingers through hers. He places a soft kiss to her jaw before pulling her back against him, and she nestles back in his arms.

Finally, he says to her once again, "I don't deserve you." It's the first time she's ever heard it without the synthesizer, and so it's the first time that she's ever heard the genuine remorse in his voice. It's as if he wishes he was worth her, but thinks he's a lost cause, as if he shouldn't be worthy of anyone's love or consideration.

It kind of breaks her heart.

"There is nothing in this world you could have done," she states flatly, and she feels him flinch as some of those things probably run through his mind, "that could possibly make you deserve misery." She tightens the arm wrapped around his middle. "You deserve happiness—we both do." She's almost glad he can't see her face when she adds, "And being with you—helping you and loving you—makes me happy. So don't treat this relationship like I have one foot out the door. I'm not going anywhere."

"Neither am I," he answers her with certainty, and she smiles against him. They're a team—as well as partners, friends, and lovers—and they've always managed to figure everything out together. She doubts that Helena will be the exception that will break them, and suddenly having the huntress on her trail doesn't scare Felicity so much.

After all, she's not facing this alone.

 

* * *

 

John Diggle considers himself to have pretty good instincts; after all, he survived Afghanistan and a career in military, and his instincts have kept him alive thus far in Oliver's crusade. He's learned to trust those instincts because of it, so when they tell him that something very nasty is about to hit the proverbial fan, he knows that dread is probably deserved.

Since Oliver has spent most of the day and the afternoon preparing the club for opening, Diggle is the one to drive Felicity back to the lair, against her loud protests. Despite understanding the situation that Oliver’s psycho ex-girlfriend has created for them, she’s voiced several times that she doesn’t like the heavy level of protection that Oliver has demanded. But Diggle knows what Helena is capable of, so he goes along with the plan despite his understanding of Felicity’s disdain.

When they enter the lair, he finally says to her, as carefully as possible, “He cares about you.” Truthfully, he thinks Oliver was half in love with the girl by the time Digg even joined their crusade, but that’s a story to tell when the two have actually realized they’re in this for the long haul. It's probably a lame defense of Oliver's character, though it's the only one Diggle can offer. He's heard the phrase "crazy for her" before, but Oliver takes it to an entirely new level; he's known for drastic measures and overreaction when Felicity is added to the mix. Admittedly, Felicity isn't much better; one moment she's saving his life, and the next, she's yelling at him.

They're crazy for each other.

"I know that," she assures Diggle quickly, "but this is a new level of Oliver's extreme, _insane_ overreaction." A smile quirks her lips up slightly. "I mean, this ranks right up there with the I-can't-tell-you-my-identity-because-you'll-run thing. I may start a list of Oliver overreactions." She thinks about it for a moment. "The alliteration alone gives it a nice ring."

"Well, in his defense," Diggle starts and Felicity raises an eyebrow that makes him revise the rest of his statement with a chuckle. "You know how much I hate to defend him because the boy's an idiot sometimes, but..." With a smile, he starts again. "In his defense, I thought you'd run, too." He studies her for a moment. "I'm kind of glad you didn't—it's hard enough to deal with his brooding ass as it is."

Surprisingly, Felicity seems to be taking the revelation rather well, even joking about it. Oliver had been training on the salmon ladder when Diggle had walked in early that morning to get his employer and friend, so he had naturally assumed that Felicity had walked out because of the lie. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to find her sleeping on the cot in the corner—well, _pretending_ to sleep; her eyes were focused on Oliver and his exercise with rapt attention. She'd looked almost disappointed when he dropped and pulled on his shirt, starting to discuss the club opening with Diggle.

Felicity actually chuckles at that last statement, knowing that it's said with equal parts affection and exasperation—a mix of emotion familiar to anyone who deals with Oliver, apparently. "I like his brooding ass," she asserts, then goes crimson before Diggle can even lift an eyebrow in question. "I mean the collective—the same way _you_ used it. Not his actual ass in the appreciative sense. Even though I _do_ like his ass, brooding or not." She closes her eyes, tilting her head ever so slightly. "And you did _not_ need to know that."

"I didn't," Diggle agrees stoically, nodding.

"Speaking of," she tries this time, seeming to have collected herself from the ramble, "where _is_ our fearless leader?" Diggle likes the level of sarcasm in her voice; they seem to band together against their "fearless leader," despite the fact that she's dating him. Somehow, it has yet to be awkward in their base of operations because of Oliver and Felicity's relationship—they seem to accept their roles and fall into step as they did before.

"Upstairs at the club opening," he answers. "He said you were welcome to join him, but I figured it wasn't your scene." He shrugs. "You don't seem like the clubbing type."

"No kidding," she mutters as she slides into her chair at the computer desk. "I'd prefer to be handed to the psycho ex-girlfriend, I think," she answers dryly, and Diggle can't help but chuckle. Even though there's nothing about Helena that merits joking, he understands it's the only way she can keep from panicking about the situation. It's not so scary if she can make a flippant joke about it, and so he lets her.

"Clearly said by someone who's never met her," Diggle answers in a similar tone. "She may _look_ like the T-Mobile girl, but with the personality of her mob boss father— _and_ crazy as hell."

"And here I thought you didn't care for me," a sickly sweet female voice says from behind them, and Diggle doesn't hesitate to pull the gun from his holster, sliding over toward Felicity. He turns to face her, frowning when he sees Oliver and Tommy behind her. She's apparently been extended an invitation, much to Diggle's chagrin.

"Still don't," Diggle answers quickly, which causes her to smile at him. It's more like a predatory smirk, as though she's a cat who has cornered a mouse. He _really_ doesn't like that look.

Before anything else can be said, Felicity brushes past the same psychopath that has been stalking her this week to go to Tommy. For the first time, Diggle realizes that the Merlyn heir is clutching his wrist. "What happened to you? That doesn't look good," she says to him, frowning.

" _She_ happened to me," Tommy spits with a glare at Helena, and Diggle knows the feeling well. Oliver's eyes narrow at the words—or Felicity's attention to his best friend; Diggle never quite knows for sure—but an impassive expression remains on his face. Clearly he isn't thrilled about this latest development, either, but Helena was always an expert at finding Oliver's weak points.

"It's a severe sprain," Oliver says finally. "There may be some torn tendons and ligaments, but nothing is broken. I checked." Felicity nods once, touches his arm as though to say, _It's not your fault_ , and then turns her attention back to their friend.

"Come on, let's get that patched up," Felicity says to Tommy gently, guiding him toward the medical cabinets. "I think we have some splints around here somewhere. I'll brace it for you."

"You know how to do that?" Diggle hears Tommy ask, and he turns his focus to Oliver and his psycho ex-girlfriend with a frown. She's found some way to leverage Oliver, no doubt, but that doesn't mean that Diggle is going to let him walk into some sort of trap alone.

As if to answer Diggle's silent question, Oliver states calmly, "We're going to help Helena break her father out of Witness Protection." His expression is a warning to Diggle not to argue, and he abides it just this once, as there are more important things to discuss right now.

"They have two vans," Helena offers, "both traveling to two different locations. This will be our only opportunity to grab him—after this, he disappears into WitSec forever." She crosses her arms firmly. "And that isn't an option."

"Well, at least that means I won't be hacking into the US Marshall Service servers," Felicity mutters absently. "By the time this is all over, I'd like to say that I've left _one_ government database still intact." She isn't even looking at them, eyes focused solely on Tommy's sprained wrist. Because of that, she misses Helena's piercing, hawk-like focus on her, as though she's filing away that information for later. Diggle, however, does not.

Diggle isn't the only one who notices Helena's new focus. "Felicity," Oliver starts, perhaps a little to sharply, judging by the way Felicity's head snaps up. "Maybe you should take the rest of the night off." It's a demand and a question all at once, a loaded look in his expression that Diggle recognizes almost as quickly as Felicity. She frowns at him and looks as though she's about to argue, but Oliver places his hand on her shoulder gently. "Please," Diggle watches him say to her, his voice so low he can't hear it, and a firm nod is the only response Felicity gives before getting up, though her expression tells both men that Oliver will most certainly hear about this later.

Oliver presses a set of keys into her hand, and Diggle realizes that the man is giving his very upset girlfriend the keys to his Maserati, in an impressive display of either bravery or stupidity. Felicity comes to the same conclusion with wide eyes, and Oliver shakes his head ever so slightly. From the angle, Helena probably hasn't seen the exchange, so Oliver probably wants to keep it that way.

They wait until she shuts the door—perhaps a little loudly—to continue the conversation, and Helena casually says, "Well, now I see why you're so interested—she has a skill set you can use." She crosses her arms, her mouth turning down into a sour expression. "And that's what you do—you use women. I wonder how long it will be until your pretty little hacker comes to the same conclusion." She tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. "If she's been with you all these months, probably not long now."

Oliver grabs the green suit from the table and his bow from its stand. "Let's get your father," is all he says, "and then you can get out of my city." He turns to her then. "And if I ever see you lurking in Starling's streets after this, I _will_ put an arrow in you."

Diggle thinks he might be serious this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Don't Let Me Be Lonely" - The Band Perry  
> "Just Give Me a Reason" - P!nk feat. Nate Ruess  
> "If I Didn't Have You" - Thompson Square  
> "Fall for You" - Secondhand Serenade  
> "That's Where You Take Me" - Britney Spears (works beautifully for the kiss scene)  
> "Miserable at Best" - Mayday Parade
> 
>  
> 
> **Friendly reminder that there's no new chapter next week. See you guys again December 4th!**


	35. Non-Resident Viral Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver asks Felicity to break his psychotic, homicidal maniac ex-girlfriend out of jail. Which sounds like a really solid plot line for _Explosión Gigantesca de Romance_ , but this fic will continue to be posted in English.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, _Explosión Gigantesca de Romance_ is the Spanish soap opera in episode 2.13 (Lights, Camera... Homicido) of _Psych_.
> 
> Two things worth talking about today. First of all, this is one of my favorite chapters in recent history because it deviated wildly from canon—and what I intended to do with it. I had a plan for this chapter, but, uh, Oliver and Felicity had other plans.
> 
> Secondly, I haven’t written a new chapter of TA in three weeks due to crunch time in the semester. Which means that I only have one other completed chapter left for you guys. If that’s still the case next week, I’m going to break until January 8 so that I can write some chapters. It’s better for me to be a few chapters ahead because I can pull the entire storyline together better. Unfortunately, I’m coming up on finals week, which means I’m going to be the opposite of productive in fanfiction.
> 
> Anyway, just some food for thought—I’ll tell you for sure next week with the other chapter. Anyhow, thank you all again for taking the time to read. All comments and reviews help feed the muse and help me improve. ;)

Pacing is not a good way to spend her time, Felicity decides, but it's the only one she can seem to manage. She has too much pent-up nervous energy for anything else, and, if it was still daylight, she might consider going for a run just to work it off—even take Saphira along. But it's pitch black outside, and she'd probably just run herself ragged to pace when she returned anyway. This energy has nothing to do with a desire to be active, she knows; it has to do with Oliver—with the fact that Oliver and Helena are out committing federal crimes.

And Felicity has absolutely _no freaking clue_ how it's going because he kicked her out.

She understands it was for her own good, to minimize her role as a target, but everyone in that room knew that if Helena wanted to use her as leverage, she would have. Instead, Felicity gathered from Tommy that Helena had chosen to target Oliver's best friend, a far less elusive target. Apparently it hadn't taken much convincing on Oliver's part—understandably, Felicity knows—but it does make her wonder how much faster he would have caved if Helena had _her_ instead of Tommy.

Pushing the thought out of her mind, she pulls out her cell phone, thinking about calling him. She sighs because she knows she won't; she doesn't want to distract him from whatever the hell mission Helena has him on. Still, knowing nothing about the situation only puts her nerves on high alert and she frowns as she tries to figure out what to do next. There are no good options, and she doesn’t think pacing the floor is still a valid option at this point.

She turns on her heel to walk back toward her bedroom, and she lets out a shrill yelp when she bumps into something hard. A steadying, gloved hand on her upper arm lets her know immediately who it is. “I really wish you’d at least _try_ to make a little noise,” Felicity says to him, a frustrated edge in her tone. When she looks up, he’s already pulled the hood back, his mask hanging around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says flatly, then tacks on, “about earlier.” He sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. “Bringing attention to your skills only made you a bigger target to Helena, and I wanted you away from her.”

She takes his hand, not quite ready to forgive him, but understanding nonetheless. “I understand,” she states firmly. “But that doesn’t matter right now.” She pulls him over toward the couch, and she sits down next to him, leg brushing hers. Saphira, who has been asleep on her bed in the corner, wakes with a jolt and jumps up on the sofa, lying down across both of them. “What happened tonight?”

He frowns, and another hand over his face tells her that the story won’t end well. “I need your help,” he admits finally. “Helena was compromised—both vans were empty and it was a trap set for her.” He shakes his head. “By the time I got there, she was already in handcuffs. The police have her now. I don’t want to break her out, but if I don’t—”

Felicity already knows the end of this story. “She’ll give you up so that you’ll both go down together,” she finishes, and he nods once. She’s had a lot of time to think about the possibility of things like this while pacing the house, so she already knows what she’s going to say: “What do you need me to do?” He seems surprised by her reaction, and she rolls her eyes. “Please, Oliver. I’d feel safer with her in jail, it’s true, but never at the expense of you going down with her.” She crosses her arms before stating, “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Oliver smiles as he takes a deep breath, acting as though the weight of the world has lifted from his shoulders. Part of her is insulted that he feels he needs to ask, but she thinks that he might be used to trading favors for favors; it’s probably a foreign concept to him that she’ll help him and expect nothing in return. “The SCPD is probably taking her in for questioning right now. I have a plan to extract her, but I’ll need you to scrub any video surveillance.”

She frowns, wishing he could give her tasks that are less impossible than the ones he does. “I can’t do that remotely,” she answers. “The SCPD’s surveillance systems are offline to prevent people like me from doing things like this. But I can hack them on-site without any problems—I saw the setup a few months ago when Lance had me check out that phone you sent him. It shouldn’t be that hard.” Without waiting for a response, she slides Saphira onto his lap and rises to her feet.

He apparently isn’t far behind, following her into her bedroom with Saphira on his heels, and only his voice gives away his position as she doesn’t turn around. “What are you doing?” he asks her, his voice turning up into a higher pitch at the end.

She ignores him, reaching into her closet for the zipup hoodie Oliver gave her during the Laurel thing, then a thermal shirt and a pair of dark jeans to replace her skirt. “I’m going with you,” she says finally, crossing her arms in a defiant gesture, daring him to argue. “You need someone to scrub the feeds, and I can do it from the security room.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. “I’ll stay in there, lock the door, and wait for you to come get me.”

Even with the calm rationale behind her statement, his answer is still exactly what she feared. “ _No_ ,” he states flatly, sharply, but then he sighs and revisits his argument. “Felicity, what happens if I _don’t_ come back to get you?” She blinks twice at the question, trying hard to figure out in what possible scenarios he wouldn’t come back for her. She draws a blank. “I’m going to be breaking into a police station to help a criminal escape police custody. It’s after hours, but there will still be plenty of police officers around. What happens to you if I get caught? If Helena turns on me and leaves me to the police?” He runs that hand over his face again. “At least the last time, you were next to the bike, had a way out. That’s not an option in this plan.” She starts to argue, and he cups her jaw. “I promised to keep you safe. This is the _opposite_ of that.”

He pulls away as though he’s won the argument, and she decides to let him know just how wrong he is to assume that. “Well, I’ve spent the last few months keeping you safe,” she answers, her voice rising without her permission. His eyes widen, but he lets her continue. “I am _not_ letting you get arrested when I can help you out. You helped me, you’ve kept me safe, and you’ve taken risks in the process.” She grips his forearms. “Now it’s my turn.” She can tell he’s still not going to listen to her, so she tries another tactic. “Look, you’re out there in the field _every night_ , leaving me to worry about if you’ll come back or not.” His mouth opens, but she puts her fingers over his mouth. “And while you being the Arrow is one of the many things I love about you, I am _not_ going to sit idly by while you break into a police station and wonder if you’re going to get out.” She hesitates before standing on her toes to kiss his jaw. “We’re in this together, Oliver.”

He heaves a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head ever so slightly, but he finally goes to the window and pulls the curtain closed for her. “It’s cold tonight,” he says finally, though he looks as if it pains him to do so. “Dress warm.”

He moves at the same time she does; he makes to exit the room as she starts pulling the jeans on under her skirt since time is of the essence. He immediately turns his back to her, and she continues changing into the new set of clothes, shaking her head at his behavior. They both know she isn’t going to let him see anything she doesn’t want him to see, but he still reacts the same way. “You didn’t have to turn,” she finally says after she’s changed jeans, as she unbuttons her blouse to reveal the white tank underneath. “If I was uncomfortable, I would have kicked you out and shut the door. Or carried everything into the bathroom.”

“I wanted to give you some privacy,” he says slowly, and his voice is… strained, as though she’s testing his resolve, even if by accident. It makes Felicity wonder if he really wasn’t joking about those fantasies, and then the bizarre nature of the thought strikes her; men like Oliver Queen do _not_ fantasize about women like Felicity Smoak. For a moment, she’s almost glad he _is_ so quick to give her privacy, as she’s fairly certain her blush spreads down her neck and across her chest.

Felicity pulls on the long-sleeved shirt before saying, “You can turn around now.” When he does, she’s pulling up the zipper on the hoodie he bought her, and she holds up a finger before remembering to trade her glasses for contacts. The last thing she wants is to have to stop halfway through this mess to grab her glasses. Her hair is still up in a ponytail, and she figures it will do fine for this. Absently, she mutters, “Someone really should write a dress code for this.”

Oliver chuckles, but then his expression goes serious again. “Felicity?” he asks hesitantly, and she looks up at him with wide eyes. “Thank you.” Before she can respond, he presses his mouth against hers, then pulls the mask and hood into place before darting out the window.

She follows by locking her door and taking the stairs like a normal person, hoping one day Oliver can actually enter her apartment through the actual door instead of the fire escape. He’s in the garage waiting for her, and she slides on the helmet before climbing on behind him. The drive doesn’t take more than a few minutes, and Oliver parks them a block or so away.

Felicity attempts to start toward the building, but Oliver catches her wrist, turning her back toward him. “This is different from the last time,” he states, an edge in his voice, “because you’re going in with me.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to stay behind me. Do _exactly_ what I tell you to do, even if you don’t agree with it. And when I put you in the surveillance room, I want you to stay there until I come back for you. Do you understand?”

She nods her head twice, and then he pulls something over her head. It’s bulky and heavy, and it takes her a moment to realize it’s a gas mask. “Oliver,” she starts, a high edge to her voice, “what—?”

“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” he answers, “but the police won’t hesitate to put a bullet in me. “I’m going to release a sedative gas before I go in, so that no one gets hurt.” He pulls the hood of her jacket up over her head. “Remember, stay behind me.”

She follows him into the building, staying behind him as he asked. The first police officer doesn’t even notice his presence before Oliver drops him, charging across the room and locking him into some sort of chokehold until he collapses to the ground in a heap. The second doesn’t find a much better fate; he falls after a sturdy punch that makes Felicity flinch—both at the blood and at the sound it makes. The third officer actually manages to draw his gun, but Oliver wrestles it out of his hand before knocking him over the head with it. Both the officer and his gun hit the floor at about the same time.

It’s the first time Felicity has ever seen him fight— _really_ fight, as in not sparring against Diggle, but instead actually taking down criminals. She decides Oliver must have been holding back when she watched him spar with Diggle, judging by the way he's moving and striking. He's faster this time, more efficient. Felicity has often seen fighting compared to a dance in books and movies, but there's nothing graceful or lyrical about this; it's violent, brutal, and cleanly efficient in the way he incapacitates foes.

It's one of the most fascinating things she's ever seen.

She loses track of the action after a few moments, but when he finishes, several police officers—eight, by her count, though it sounded like more—are on the ground, all very much unconscious. She's too busy glancing around to notice how Oliver sets off the gas canisters, but he guides her through the thick fog of chemicals into a room at the far end of the hall.

The first thing she notices is a set of outdated computers, but it doesn’t take her long to dig through the surveillance footage and scrub what little evidence there is thus far. "Okay, we’re good,” she tells him, turning to find him positioning an unused table in front of the door. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer the question directly, as is his wont. “Slide this under the lock once I leave. Don’t move it unless I tell you.” His voice sounds ominous under the synthesizer now. A week ago, she wouldn’t have noticed, but now she does because she knows the voice underneath. Still, it’s not particularly scary—just dark and angry, and she believes Oliver is probably both right now. He offers her the Bluetooth headset she remembers leaving on her coffee table, but then changes his mind and slides it over the top of her ear. “Stay in touch—let me know if you need anything.”

He slides out of the doorway, then, and she pushes the table in front of it, if only to humor him. The door has a lock on it that she makes sure is locked before pulling up the cameras, looking for Helena. She finds her quickly. “It looks like she’s in Interview One,” Felicity says to him. “I’m trying to figure out how to pull up audio, but she’s in with Detective Lance and Detective Hall.” She bites her lip as she presses a button, and then she can hear Lance’s gravelly voice in the background.

“I’m on it,” Oliver offers tersely, and she thinks it’s interesting how quickly he can slide in and out of Arrow-mode and normal-Oliver-mode.

With nothing else to listen to, the audio of the interview room takes up the space. “...murder your old man,” Lance is saying in a very growly voice. “You want to tell us why?”

“Not particularly,” is Helena’s answer, looking and sounding incredibly bored, despite the way her hands are cuffed to the metal bar on the table. Felicity can't understand how she manages to stay so blasé, but then she figures Helena Bertinelli was probably born without a heart. Or, at least, lost hers somewhere along the way. She's a reminder to Felicity of what Oliver _could_ have become, if he wasn't so very different than the Huntress.

"You should reconsider," Detective Hall answers. "We have you, but the Vigilante managed to escape before our guys could move on him." She leans over the table, still standing for whatever reason—maybe it makes her feel taller. Then Felicity realizes she's being catty and frowns. "You know who he is—who he _really_ is."

Felicity's stomach drops, and she knows Oliver better get there soon before Helena throws him to the wolves—or police officers, as the case may be. Instead of singing like a canary, she instead responds, "I think _all_ of us know who he is." It's a powerful, enigmatic statement that rings with the truth, but neither officer notices what a hint she's giving them.

Then again, the mind sees what it chooses to see; Felicity is just as guilty of that as anyone.

Lance tries the approach this time, and Felicity is rather surprised to see him playing the good cop to Hall's bad cop; she'd always figured Lance for the bad cop. "Look, Ms. Bertinelli," he starts slowly, "you're going to jail." He holds up his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. "We can't change that. But that doesn't mean there aren't variations of good and bad in there. We can make things better. _Or_ "—suddenly his voice is different, dark and more threatening—"they could be worse." He pushes a pen and paper toward her. "You tell me his name, and we will do everything we can to make things better."

Felicity holds her breath, waiting for the moment to happen—for Helena to open her mouth, for her to pick up the pen, for Oliver to burst through the doors. Unfortunately, Helena is faster than Oliver, sulking back in her seat as casually as possible with her hands thrown in front of her on the bar. "Oliver Queen," she says casually, as though she's simply discussing the weather. Then her eyes narrow as she leans forward, continuing into, "He's an old friend of yours, right?" Felicity lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding as the tension on the screen transforms into a different kind. "I believe you two went out to dinner a few weeks ago," she mentions casually, and Felicity frowns before she remembers the bug she made for McKenna's phone. She's not exactly a betting woman, but she'd bet that had something to do with it. "Did he mention that we used to be lovers?"

"Wow, nice," Felicity mutters to herself. "McKenna should thank you for being the bigger person and not throwing that up in her face." She shakes her head. "With all the subtlety and finesse of a battering ram, too."

A snort in her headset reminds her that other things are happening elsewhere in the building. "Accurate description," Oliver offers through the synthesizer, between grunts of exertion, as though he's fighting someone.

On the security camera footage, McKenna responds frostily, "We want to know about the Hood, not Oliver Queen." Maybe Felicity judged the detective a little harshly; she seems quick to rise to the defense of her friend, and Felicity has always been a sucker for blind loyalty.

Helena doesn't even miss a beat, her dismissal of the detective's words so masterful it almost qualifies as art. "I'll let you in on a little secret," she continues in a conspiratorial voice. "It's not going to work out between you two." She smiles, but it's probably similar to the way the evil queen used to smile at Snow White: all poison and malice, coated with a thick layer of false honey and innocence. "You see, Oliver has a special talent—he uses people. _Especially_ women." She shrugs. "I'm not too proud to admit he used me." She motions to Lance. "He used the detective here's daughter." She throws him another of those smiles. "Excuse me, I meant _daughters_." She turns back to McKenna. "And he seems to particularly enjoy using Felicity Smoak.” She muses that for a moment as Felicity rolls her eyes. “I guess he has his favorites, even if we don’t mean anything to him. I would get out of it before you get yourself hurt.”

She’s made a mistake by setting off Lance, and he slaps the table angrily, rising to his feet. Felicity jumps at the sudden movement, but Helena doesn’t even flinch. “Last chance,” he growls this time, and it’s a warning. “I want his name.”

Helena’s response is laced with an enigmatic smile. “The Arrow.”

Felicity doesn’t have time to dwell on that before Oliver asks her, “Felicity, can you cut the power to the interrogation room?”

“I’m insulted you feel the need to ask,” she replies quickly, earning a chuckle for her trouble, causing her to smile in victory. “They have a generator, though, so I’ll have to cut it, too. And when I do, I’m fairly certain there’s a loud, obnoxious alarm waiting to go off. You won’t have much time.”

“I don’t need much time,” he assures her, his voice taking on a softer sound as he tries to reassure any doubts she has. And she _does_ have doubts, but she’s trying to hide them for his sake. “Cut them… _now._ ”

She types the command in the prompt screen, and then she waits as her bird’s-eye view goes dark.

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance is approximately five seconds away from slapping the sardonic smile from Helena Bertinelli’s face—if his new partner, Detective Hall, doesn’t beat him to it—when the building suddenly goes dark. Thirty years’ experience as a police officer tells him it isn’t coincidence, especially when the back-up generator fails to kick like it should.

Sensing the worst, Lance turns to Hall, barking out orders. “There’s something wrong here—go check with security. I’ll stay with the prisoner.” The sound of someone hitting the ground causes Lance to reassess his former priority, and he manages to exit the room before Hall does. She’s on his tail, but they both realize the horrible mistake they’ve made when they see the thick cloud of smoke rolling in. One breath causes his vision to blur, and he immediately throws a sleeve over his mouth, noticing that his partner does the same while still moving toward security.

He’s about to follow her when a thought strikes him: the lights are still on outside the room. That means that someone deliberately shut off power to the interview room, and there are only a handful of ways that can be done. The one that strikes him first is the simplest, the one that best fits the situation.

Their electrical system is computer-controlled, and the Arrow has access to the best IT girl Lance knows.

He changes paths immediately, turning on his heel and moving in the opposite direction, hoping to at least stop one of them. While he’s starting to go soft around Felicity Smoak, those two have kicked in the doors of _his_ house this time—the police aren’t going to let that go without a fight, and they’ve succeeded in angering Lance himself. As he continues, the haze of knock-out gas in the room starts to overpower him, and he knows it’s futile to go after them, even now. But it’s worth the impossibly slim odds to give it a shot, so he does anyway.

It pays off, because, sure as the world, the Vigilante turns the corner toward Lance, his gloved hand around a smaller one. The girl is the right height and build for Felicity, but her features are masked by the cloud of gas, the black hood pulled over her head, and the gas mask. But, judging by the way the hooded psychopath is watching his surroundings and the hold he has on her hand, Lance would bet every last dime of his pension that it was her.

Usually, Lance sees Felicity’s antics with equal parts parental disdain and amusement. After all, she’s helping a vigilante with multiple homicides under his belt, yet still manages to communicate in creative statements and wild hand gestures, as though the Hood’s presence in her life hasn’t tarnished her personality in any way. But this time is different for Lance. This time they’ve gone too far, kicking in the front door of the station and breaking out a prisoner ten times worse than the Hood himself.

This time he’s angry about it.

He doesn’t hesitate to draw his gun, though he’d very much like not to. But he can’t let anyone escape now, not if he can avoid it. “Freeze,” he commands sharply, and the two stop mid-step. The Arrow doesn’t hesitate to slide in front of the girl, careful to protect her from any threat presented. “You’re under arrest.”

“Detective, that’s not going to happen,” the Vigilante answers in that modulated voice that sound robotic and soulless, as though he’s not truly human. Even Lance understands why this guy makes the big shots in Starling City wet their pants; there’s something about him that makes everyone forget he’s just a person wearing a mask, not a faceless urban legend of the night. “No one is injured, and you’ll be unconscious before you can stop us.” There’s no threat or arrogance in the tone; he’s just stating fact now.

Lance hates to admit the green-hooded psychopath is right, but, damn it, he’s right. Already he can feel himself swaying on his feet, trying desperately to stay upright. He knows it’s a losing battle, but stopping the Vigilante is his number-one priority. “Drop the bow,” he tries again anyway, not one to give up. He’s practically at point-blank range with the gun, and, if he wanted to, he could see if he could finish what Moira Queen started.

The Arrow seems to know what he’s thinking, tilting his head to the side in thought for a long moment. Then he looks back at the girl, and his expression is dark when he turns back to Lance. “If you don’t lower that gun soon,” he warns in a low tone, “I’m going to take it from you.” There’s no threat or malice; again he’s only stating fact, with the glance backward making Lance think that his first priority is getting the girl out safely.

Lance isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do, but he never gets the chance. The fog finally permeates his brain and his legs buckle underneath him. He’s barely conscious enough to feel something—some _one_ —catch the gun, and he hears the lock on the safety click back into place before it slides back into his holster.

He manages to keep his eyes open long enough to watch the two slip out of the building, the Arrow’s hand at the small of her back.


	36. Malicious Remote Access

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Helena have some quality girl time. Which sounds like an AU where crazy Helena isn't crazy and she's BFFs with Felicity, but that's not happening here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/2SzAV5VrtVlScMbG5PrKu8).
> 
> First of all… _I do not want to talk about the mid-season finale or the fact that we’ll have to wait a month to see what happens._ Yes, I watched it, but _holy freaking cliffhanger, Batman_. Hopefully this will make things better.
> 
> Something bears mentioning in this chapter: Helena. She’s… well, you’ll see. But if you come into this chapter expecting to find canon!Helena, you’re probably going to be disappointed. That being said, I really like what I did with her—and this chapter. I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> **IMPORTANT NOTE FOR THE POSTING SCHEDULE:** The update schedule for the rest of the year is going to be as follows: December 18 (normal day), December 30 (to navigate around Christmas, both of which are on Thursdays), and then back to the normal schedule again on January 8.

It's after six when Felicity glances back at the second computer at her workstation, frowning when she sees the result on the screen. She set it to notify her when it turned up anything, but apparently the computer decided that another plan of action was in order. Sighing, she still looks at the screen, just to make sure. Call it female intuition, but she didn't exactly believe that Helena would take defeat so easily, to just give up on her mission of revenge so quickly.

With that in mind, she still looks at the alert, her frown deepening when she looks at the text: a robbery at a sporting goods store, where they were relieved of one crossbow and enough bolts to supply a small war. Apparently Helena decided not to take Oliver's suggestion to get out of town, and she simply chose to take matters into her own hands after unsatisfactory results with Oliver. Under normal circumstances, Felicity would understand—she and Oliver have had their fair share of arguments because they're both ridiculously stubborn—but the idea of having a woman with a crossbow and a penchant for dropping bodies running around makes a small shiver run up her spine.

Especially when said woman has already tried to take a crack at Felicity once.

She decides that, even though Oliver is going to be overbearing and overprotective, that he probably needs to know that things with Helena aren't over yet. She pulls out her cell phone, still careful to use her burner to discuss Arrow business, and she dials one of only two numbers. With a number of tasks at the office still to complete, she connects it to her Bluetooth headset so she can have her hands free to move computers around.

"Hey, Felicity," he answers on the second ring, and she can hear noise in the background—noise that sounds suspiciously like Tommy, though she can't make out his words. Vaguely, she can make out a muffled, "Go flirt with your _own_ girlfriend." It's silly the way her heart skips a beat at the last word; there's no doubt they're in a committed relationship, but it still surprises her sometimes that she's dating _Oliver Queen_. "Sorry about that," he says clearly now. "Do you want me to bring food down from the club for you?" Clearly he thinks she’s calling ahead because she’s about to leave work, and she glances wistfully at the clock before the stack of broken computers makes her frown.

"I'm not leaving QC yet," she answers, frowning. "I still have a few things to do before I call it a night here, but I was multitasking and picked up a police report that you should probably know about." She sighs. "Apparently, there was a break-in at a sporting goods store. Everything was intact, except they were robbed of one top-of-the-line, high-powered crossbow." She shrugs, even though he can't see her. "Could be some crazy coincidence, but I don't think so."

"Helena is still in town," he says in a tone that's several shades darker than his last. It's not anger, but something else that will always surprise her: worry. Even with few words, Felicity understands the emotion in his voice, in the words he doesn't say. They speak so much louder than the few he uses.

She decides to lighten the mood, just to make things a little easier for him. "Well, I was going to say 'psycho ex-girlfriend' since Digg isn't here to say it for me, but I think we've come to the same conclusion." It works; she earns one of those breathy almost-chuckles. "Either way, I think you should be careful. She's probably going after her dad, but I don't want you to catch a crossbow bolt because we assumed something we shouldn't have."

"I'll be careful," he assures her in a sincere voice. "I'm more concerned about you—she's already gone after you once this week." His tone turns dark again as he adds, "And that's one time too many for me." He sighs. "I probably can't convince you to come back to the lair tonight, can I?"

"That was one time only," she answers, confirming his suspicions. "I have Saphira at home, and I don't want her poking around your arrows. Or biting anyone's ankle off, though Tommy could probably use a good ankle-biting every now and again." It's worth another chuckle, and she's glad to relieve some of the pressure he fights every day—God knows he already has enough. Trying for a compromise, she offers instead, "You could stay the night with me, though."

There's a long pause across the line, and Felicity realizes what she said with a groan. "I hate my brain sometimes," she complains. "That wasn't a euphemism or a come on or anything. I meant that, if you were worried about my safety, you could stand guard or whatever it is you do all night. I'm not trying to seduce you."

"Maybe you should be," he answers almost immediately. His voice is darker in a different way this time, throaty and quiet with intent. Even though it’s on the phone and she can’t see his eyes darken with intensity, his tone alone is enough to make her face heat furiously.

For once, she doesn’t know what to say, so she turns away from her computer and toward the front of her office absently. In doing so, she catches a glimpse of something in the reflection off of the glass and she freezes immediately.

Because _that_ is very much a crossbow.

She fights the initial reaction to freeze like a deer in the headlights and instead turns around, back toward the computer. “Oliver,” she whispers, “she’s here.” Then she takes a deep breath and says louder, for Helena’s benefit. “As I said before, you’re shameless.” Somehow her voice comes out pretty casual, even though she can feel her heart racing. “I’ll meet you at the club after I finish everything here.”

“I’ll be right there,” he assures her. “Don’t hang up.” There’s noise in the background—movement of some sort, and she can hear Tommy say something, too indistinct for her to catch. “I have to go,” Oliver answers in a hard tone that makes her stomach drop. It isn’t angry or concerned; it’s dark with intent, and, for once, Felicity is concerned for Helena’s well-being.

“See you then,” she answers, then presses a hand to the headset as though hanging up. She turns back to her work as casually as possible, trying to forget the impossible situation and focus on her work long enough to make Helena think that they were finished.

It works, and, despite the fact that she's waiting for Helena, she jumps when a voice behind her says, "Hello again, Felicity. We didn't get a chance to talk last night." Felicity swivels with a good sense of foreboding, and sure enough, Helena is dressed in that purple trench coat, her crossbow aimed expertly. Felicity swallows; this was more upsetting than she'd expected, even with the advanced warning. Helena clicks her tongue when she sees the headset on Felicity's ear, using the bow to motion toward it. "I think we need a little privacy for girl talk, don't you? Lose the headset."

Felicity does as she says, stating clearly, "If you're trying to get to Oliver, you're after the wrong girl. We're friends—if even that. Taking me as leverage is pointless." She says it all with a straight face, trying desperately to make herself believe the lie so that Helena can't see the truth instead.

To her surprise, Helena laughs. "Aren't _you_ presumptuous," she answers thoughtfully. "I told you: I wanted to talk." She casually drapes herself in one of the chairs across from Felicity's desk, propping her feet up on the desk and keeping her crossbow trained on the blonde all the while. "I was going to warn you the other night about Oliver using people, but you obviously seem to know that." She studies Felicity for a long moment. "I thought you'd be different for him, but last night proves otherwise." She chuckles. "I thought he cared about you, but if he did, he wouldn't pull you into this without being armed or trained."

Felicity frowns as a realization comes to her. "You came to my house two nights ago," she starts slowly, " _with a crossbow_ to _talk?_ " Surely Helena doesn't think she'll buy any lie as cheaply-made as that one; it's ridiculous.

Helena shrugs. "I didn't know your level of training then," she answers casually. "That was when I realized you weren't a threat at all, but Tommy made for an easier target at the club opening. I don't mind improvising." She smiles, and it sends a chill down Felicity's spine. "And then I learned you're good with computers—a trait that became useful when they moved my father to the FBI safe house last night. I want that information, Felicity."

"If you're going to kill me, just do it," Felicity answers flatly. "I'm not going to be an accessory to patricide." She crosses her arms in defiance, though she knows it's probably going to spell out her own death. But she wouldn't serve as Oliver's accessory to murder, so she's certainly not going to be Helena's, either.

To her surprise, Helena laughs, though there's no humor in the sound. "Now why would I _possibly_ kill _you?_ " she answers, seeming genuinely opposed to the idea. "I'm not a blind killer." She amends her previous statement with the slight lift of a shoulder. "Well, not anymore. Oliver did what he does to all of us—he repurposed me. He took a computer technician and turned you into a hacker, but he taught me not to kill when I could apply leverage." Her hawk-like gaze pierces Felicity, the false smile and honeyed words falling away and exposing a dark bite in her tone. "If I kill you, I just have to start looking for another computer genius who can hack the FBI—not an easy feat, or so I'm told."

She stares at the bolt loaded in her crossbow for a long moment. "But see, I work smarter now. I did my research today, and I found that you were in the system." She shifts in her seat a little. "After my mother died, my father was accused of one of his many crimes, and they put me in foster care until he was released, and the foster home I went to was a loving family." Something in her expression turns sad, then dark as night. "That was where I met Michael, my fiancé. So, when I saw you were in the system, I realized that, you can still have family without being related." Felicity's spine goes to ice as Helena offers her next words: "And that was when I found Dr. Bartholomew Allen—known as 'Barry' to his friends."

She waves her free hand flippantly. "Now, I don't know you very well, Felicity, but I think you're loyal to your friends—and to your family. But what I do know is that. And that Barry is a good man—if the charities and awards are anything to go on.  So, I ask you to make a trade tonight: Barry's life for my father's." Felicity's stomach drops further as she understands the implications, the trade that Helena is offering. Helena waves her hand again. "Someone is going to die tonight, and there's absolutely nothing you can do to prevent that. But now it's in your hands." She leans forward ever so slightly, some sort of dark hunger in her eyes, as though she enjoys this twisted game of cat and mouse. "So, tell me, Felicity: am I making a trip to an FBI safe house, or am I going to Central City?"

It's not even a choice, but it's one Felicity makes without hesitation. She'd commit any atrocity in the world to keep Barry save—readily and cheerfully, even. Barry was her first and only friend in the time when she needed friends most, standing with her through thick and thin. She was a horrible child after everything went sideways with her mother, a horrible teenager—a horrible friend. Yet Barry stuck with her through her mother's trial, through her rebellious phase in high school, and through that... mishap in college. Everyone else ran from her cynicism and prickly demeanor, but Barry never gave up on her. Oliver may be the love she'll never get over, and Cooper may have been her first love, but it was Barry who opened her heart.

It was Barry who taught her that love wasn't always toxic.

She doesn't even take time to think about it, only turns to her computer. "I hacked the FBI ages ago, so it shouldn't take me too long," she answers finally, not looking at Helena. She doesn't want to see that victorious, Cheshire Cat-like grin fall over her features in victory. Felicity hasn't lost anything yet, as far as she's concerned. Helena might have won this battle, but Felicity has learned that sometimes you have to sacrifice a battle or two in order to win the war.

Sacrifice a pawn to take the queen. Really, Helena should never have tried to match wits with a former chess club president.

It takes her all of twelve minutes to give her the information, and she spends six of that wrestling with the idea of giving Oliver’s psycho ex a false address. Eventually, she decides against it, too afraid that Helena will immediately go to Barry when the address doesn’t pan out. She’s not foolish enough to take that risk with her best friend’s life, and she has faith that Oliver can still stop Helena. Finally, she prints out a piece of paper. “Here,” she says as flatly as possible, trying not to display her disgust or challenge the woman for fear it will set her off. “It’s what you wanted. Now go put bolts in daddy, if it makes you feel better.” She doesn’t mean for the words to slip out of her mouth, but they come all the same.

Helena smiles at that, an odd response to the level of defiance. She tucks the piece of paper into her jacket. “You know,” she answers finally, “I was just going to let you go and call Oliver after this, but I absolutely _hate_ rudeness. It’s all about a lack of respect between people—and, despite what you may think, I respect you, Felicity.” She stares at Felicity thoughtfully for a moment. “I think there should be a consequence for disrespect, don’t you?”

Before Felicity can decide if she needs to answer or not, Helena motions with the bow while pulling out something that looks like zip cuffs. Felicity wants nothing more than to fight back in whatever way possible, but the gleaming tip of the crossbow bolt reminds her that any resistance is probably futile. “Put your hands behind you,” Helena commands sharply, and Felicity does as she asks, feeling the zip cuffs pull tight against her wrists. Helena swivels the chair and zips a set around Felicity’s ankles next. The blonde’s eyes fall closed as she waits for the indication of the crossbow firing, but it never comes.

Instead, her world tilts sideways and her shoulder connects with the ground with a violent crash. Tears prick at her eyes as pain shoots through her shoulder and elbow, and she knows there’s going to be a bruise where the arm of the desk chair catches just above her hip. She bites her lip to keep a scream from echoing, though she tastes blood from it. “Thank you for your assistance, Felicity,” Helena says then, and Felicity opens her eyes to find the Huntress already leaving.

Felicity’s first reaction is to sound out all the expletives she’s ever heard—and possibly some she invents on the spot—because the throbbing in her shoulder is still there, and her eyes water without permission. She makes the effort to sit up, but it only results in banging her shoulder against the floor, and she can feel the tears spill over. Frustrated and hurting, she just lies there for a long moment with closed eyes, hoping the pain will stop.

“Felicity?” a tense, worried voice calls from what sounds like the door to her office, and her eyes snap open as a shaky breath leaves her.

“Down here, Oliver,” she answers quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed by her predicament. She’s _not_ a damsel in distress, and she doesn’t need anyone to save her, even if Oliver _is_ her first choice.

He’s by her side in an instant, pulling her into a sitting position by her uninjured arm, and she makes a dedicated effort not to look at him. She watches out of the corner of her eye as he pulls the green-handled switchblade out of his pocket and slashes the bindings with relative ease. He grabs her chin, tilting her head toward him gently and cupping her face when she turns to him. His thumb brushes just under her eyelid, and she watches his eyes harden after he realizes why her mascara is smeared. Instead of jumping to action, he asks her quietly, “Are you all right?”

She swallows once, nods. “I’m fine,” she assures him, but they both know it’s a lie. He frowns but cuts the tie around her ankles before scooping her up and sitting her on the desk. He only raises an eyebrow at her statement and she amends it: “Something happened to my shoulder when she—” His eyes go dangerously dark with fury, and she rephrases it, “When I fell. There’s an ache above my hip, and something happened to my elbow.”

He pushes the cap sleeve of her shirt carefully before prodding at the joint as carefully as possible. He then does the same to her elbow before assuring her, “Nothing is broken or dislocated, but it’s probably jammed.” Before she can answer, he pulls up her shirt to check on her hip, and her voice breaks off in a strangled breath before she can even say anything.

After all, she’s had some fantasies that start _very_ similar to this scenario.

“You’re already starting to bruise,” he informs her, “but I don’t think anything is broken. Security called the cops when they found footage of the break-in, so let them know if anything changes.” He starts to say something else, but then his eyes flick down to where his hand still lingers above her hip and his voice leaves him as he comes to the same realization as Felicity. His pupils dilate (something that sends a prickle of decidedly-not-fear down her back), but he pulls her shirt back down, his eyes fixed steadily on hers.

He tilts her head up as if he’s going to kiss her, but then he turns her lip out, his expression hardening as he spots blood. “I bit it when I fell,” she answers the unspoken question, and it doesn’t seem to make him relax any.

In an abrupt movement, he tenses for a beat, suddenly pulling Felicity to her feet and angling her behind him. Oliver takes the knife from his pocket, aiming it as a gun pokes around the corner. They both break as they recognize friend, Oliver and Diggle both breathing heavily from the adrenalin rush.

“Felicity, you okay?” he asks, and she nods as Oliver pulls her into his side. He turns to Oliver. “I got your message—what happened?”

“Helena happened,” is Oliver’s flat answer, and he places a kiss to Felicity’s temple before pulling away. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he answers before she can even ask the question, stopping to offer a long look at Diggle. The military man nods in response, not even holstering his pistol. “Wait for the police—they’ll want a statement.”

“Oliver,” Felicity calls after him, “what are you going to do?” For her, the situation is more terrifying than the Dodger; this time, she’s not going to be there to prevent him from stopping Helena. _Permanently_. She’s never seen him like this before, equal parts anger and cold control. It’s the latter that scares her, that reminds her he’s killed before and he can do it again at any time.

His voice is cold this time when he answers vaguely, “This ends tonight, Felicity.”

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance takes a long breath as he charges into the eighteenth floor of the Queen Consolidated building, frustrated by his required presence. The night shift is wearing on him, he decides, now that he’s on the Arrow case— _Vigilante_ case, he reminds himself; only the Arrow’s friends call him such. The lack of light in his life seems to be draining him mentally, physically, and emotionally. Things with Laurel have been strained at best, due to the whole Sara-is-alive fiasco (he still isn’t sure how that one will play out), and now he’s trudging around Huntress while Detective Hall runs off after the Arrow— _Vigilante_.

Honestly, that girl is the only thing keeping him sane.

McKenna Hall brings what Hilton has called a “youthful exuberance” to the task force assigned to the Vigilante. Lance sees it more as the charm of a woman who knows she’s charming mixed with the determination of a bloodhound with a scent, but he supposes Hilton’s description works, too. Either way, the girl is the light in the darkness.

He turns the corner into the doorway marked “IT Department,” that sinking feeling in his gut hitting him yet again. The IT Department in particular rings a bell, but, for the life of him, he can’t place it. But then he sees that same, damned blonde ponytail, and he knows.

Felicity Smoak.

It’s only then that he realizes she’s a little disheveled; her hair is falling out of its ponytail and there are two nice, impressive bruises forming on her shoulder and her elbow. Then he notices the tissue she keeps dabbing at her lip—red with blood—and he figures she and Helena Bertinelli got into it. And, he has to admit, if that’s true, he’s kind of surprised she isn’t dead.

Still, it surprises him to see cool-as-a-cucumber Felicity sitting in one of the guest chairs in front of her desk, gnawing on a fingernail in either concern or PTSD. A hand falls on the back of her chair, and Lance vaguely recognizes the man as Queen’s bodyguard. He seems to know Felicity well, hovering behind her with careful eyes that rake over the scene with a level of observance that borders on eerie.

Weird, all-knowing bodyguard in the background notwithstanding, it looks like a typical scene of a break-in or unwanted visitor: chair overturned on the floor, disheveled victim, and CSUs taking photographs and other... CSU things. Forensics isn't exactly his specialty so he sticks to what he knows. That's witness statements, interviews, and interpretation of forensic fact.

Lance's first order of business, he decides, is the disheveled blonde. "Miss Smoak," he offers in greeting before sitting down in the chair next to hers. He wants to start off with business, but fatherly concern gets the better of him. After all, Felicity is close in age to Sara, and part of him can't always reconcile the two into different spaces. "Are you okay?"

She offers him a rather shaky smile. "I'm fine, Detective," she assures him, though her words are a little hollow and her eyes a little distant and unfocused. He notes that the black lines painted around her eyes are smudged, and he thinks she might have been crying. Suddenly he wants to find the son of a bitch that did this, and the surge of emotion surprises him.

He's sure she's a _criminal_ , for Pete's sake.

"They're just a few bruises," she continues in assurance, rather casual for whatever has just happened. "But you're probably more concerned about what happened." She takes a shaky breath before rushing into, "It was Helena Bertinelli who did this."

Lance blinks twice, knowing for certain that it's not the whole story. "You want to tell me why she'd go after you? Do you even know each other?"

Felicity smiles for some reason unknown to him, then shakes her head. "We met once a few months ago, but I'm hardly an acquaintance." She hesitates, giving Diggle a pointed glance, and the man walks away to the entrance without a word. Her voice drops as she continues, "The Arrow, however, is another matter."

Lance frowns at the reminder of the incident last night. "I'm aware of that," he answers dryly. "I didn't think he'd help her out if she was just his roommate's cousin twice-removed." Then he adds, "And I don't think that, _hypothetically_ "—he can't believe that he's playing this game by her rules—"he would endanger his favorite computer genius unless there was a good reason."

Felicity bites back a smile, probably for the sake of continuing the conversation. "Helena might have realized that I'm capable with computers," she admits. Her smile drops immediately. "She threatened my family—threatened _Barry_ —if I didn't give her Frank Bertinelli's location."

Lance's eyebrows knit together, his mouth turning into a frown. "Why would you have that information?"

"I didn't," she admits slowly, "but she knew I could hack it for her." At his raised eyebrow, she continues, "I write code, Detective—it's what I'm good at. Technically, hacking is code, too." Absently, she muses on the thought. "Coding is like the Force—it can be used for great good or great evil." He blinks twice, and she blushes. "The point is that I broke into a federal database tonight under duress—she held a crossbow on me the entire time and threatened my brother. I didn't feel like there was another way out."

She looks away now. "And then she tied me up and tilted my chair over. And she left me there for someone to find—or not. I was supposed to meet Oliver at the club to set up the wireless router, so he sent Mr. Diggle to come get me when I didn't show up. He found me here."

He’s about to attempt to pry more out of him—because he's certain it isn't the full story—when Oliver Queen walks into the room. Lance notices the way Felicity's eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly, in a gesture of confusion, and he doesn't miss the way the billionaire's head slides ever so slightly to the side before he breaks into a concerned smile. "Are you okay?" he asks her quietly, his hand falling on her forearm.

She nods once. "Just some sort of crazy woman broke in here," she answers with a false smile. Queen's eyes flick to the bruise on her arm, and she crosses her arm over it self-consciously. "It's just a bruise—I fell out of my chair. It's fine."

The exchange causes Lance to balk a little; he had still stuck to the idea that Oliver Queen was the Vigilante, for lack of better suspects and his relation to the crime. But if the scene between them is an act, they're both very good actors—or she doesn't know. He doesn't understand the silent exchange between them, but he doubts that even Diggle knows what happened there.

"I'm trying to conduct a witness interview here, Mr. Queen," Lance states dryly, gritting his teeth through the idea of having to be respectful to the man responsible for his daughter's death. He may be "reformed," or whatever the hell Felicity told him before, but he isn't buying it. "Do you mind?"

Queen’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to say something, but Felicity puts a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes flick to her. Lance is a little impressed by their silent communication; it’s uncanny how they can have an entire conversation with eyebrow raises, frowns, and touches. Queen frowns in response, but he sighs. “Let me know when you’re finished here, and I’ll drive you home,” he offers in a defeated tone before walking out of the room.

Lance can feel his eyebrows go up at the display and the blonde flushes slightly at the expression. He hasn’t known Oliver Queen to be particularly devoted, and he decides that maybe, despite her criminal activity, Felicity Smoak has been good for the kid. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. Finally, he clears his throat and asks quietly, “And your friend in green? He know what happened here tonight?”

“He wasn’t thrilled,” she answers after a long pause, her tone enough of an answer for both of them. No doubt that they’re going to get a report of the Vigilante active tonight—and probably the Huntress, too.

He sighs deeply, then waves a hand at her. “You’re free to go, Miss Smoak. If you remember anything that might help…” He’s only reciting the words at this point; they both know she’s not going to offer anything else. “Give me a call.”

She gives him one of those enigmatic smiles. “Always, Detective.”

He watches her walk out of the office, over to Queen. She says something to him as she takes his hand, walking with him toward the elevator bank. His expression is grim as he speaks to her, and her face falls slowly before they’re out of the detective’s line of vision. Then he frowns at the scene of the crime.

He hopes Detective Hall has turned up more than him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Knives and Pens (Acoustic)" - Black Veil Brides  
> "Goodbye Agony" - Black Veil Brides  
> "One By One" - Cher  
> "I Don't Wanna" - Within Temptation  
> "Drag Me to the Grave" - Black Veil Brides


	37. Hard Drive Defragmentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's certain that something-plot related happens in the chapter. And if you find it, please share with the class and tell us what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy last-post-before-the-holidays! ;) This is going to be a ridiculously early post because, hey, it’s midnight in my time zone. I’m up doing homework so, eh, might as well. (I’m a little punchy because I’ve been up for the past twenty-two hours straight, so if I seem wonky, that’s why.)
> 
> This chapter was a toughie, not gonna lie. I think I finally got it all straightened out, but I’ll let you lovely folks be the judges on this one. I actually just introduced a new perspective that I’m pretty excited about—I’ve never written her before (just a few throwaway lines earlier in this fic), so it was a nice experience. As always, thanks for reading—and I’m going to try and be a little better about answering reviews/comments now that finals are over. ;) I’d love to know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> **There are a few housekeeping notes at the end.**

After a long moment of studying her, Detective Lance says to Felicity, "You're free to go, Miss Smoak." He waves a hand tiredly as he says it, as though _he's_ the one who just faced a psychopathic killer. "If you remember anything that might help, give me a call."

She sighs deeply, mind still reeling from her encounter with Helena Bertinelli. She has to admit, she feels a little better now that Oliver is within sight and apparently not suffering any injuries too severe for him to show up. No matter what happened out there, at least he's back. And it only increases her relief that Detective Lance is here, instead of facing down a psychotic Helena Bertinelli.

Felicity offers him a smile in return that she doesn't feel before replying, "Always, Detective."

It causes him to give her a humorless, silent chuckle in return, but she doesn't stay to analyze it. She walks out of the room, directly for Oliver. His indecipherable expression before had been... _troubling_ , to say the least, and she needs to know what happened. Her bet is that Helena is dead, but she hopes not. The Oliver she first met—the one who was used to fighting for survival and killing at any cost—was tormented by the deaths he caused, and she doesn't want that for him again. Felicity has no doubt that this time, Helena's death would weigh more heavily on his conscience, and he's already endured so much.

She takes his hand the moment she walks up to him, watching Oliver's expression carefully. He doesn't seem to be tormented, but she can see his calm outward appearance for the façade that it is. "What happened tonight?" she asks before he can find a way to change the subject. "Are you okay?"

His expression immediately turns grave, and it makes a tendril of dread slide down her spine. "Helena got away," he answers, running a hand over his face. "I couldn't—" He stops himself from finishing that thought, but Felicity understands; he can't send her to jail without fear of having his own identity compromised, and he can't kill her, either. He sighs. "But she shot McKenna. She's alive, but her detective days are over—at least for a while."

He pulls her toward the elevator bay as she responds, "It's not your fault, Oliver. You know that, right?" She doesn't even know McKenna Hall, but Felicity does sympathize with the circumstance. Mostly, though, she's hurting for everyone else involved—for Oliver, whose friend is injured, and for Lance, who has lost a partner. He doesn't answer for a very long moment as they board the elevator, and she continues, "You did everything you could do to stop her."

She hesitates for a moment before deciding that something else needs to be said. "That's one of the things I learned from you two when I joined this crusade, Oliver: you can't always win." She thinks about that first night in the lair, about how he nearly died when they lost that time. Then all the times before come rushing back to her in vivid detail—the dose of Vertigo that the Count intended to be lethal, how he lost to the Dark Archer and she had to half-carry him into her car. "But we're playing with higher stakes. When _we_ lose, we lose big." She sighs deeply, suddenly wondering if this is how Atlas felt, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "It doesn't make things any easier, but it's true."

Diggle clears his throat, and the look he gives Felicity before speaking lets her know he's going to reinforce her points. "Maybe you should go see McKenna," he suggests. "I don't think she blames you, and maybe that will help ease your conscience, too." He claps Oliver on the shoulder. "But Felicity is right, Oliver. People in McKenna's line of work get injured on the job—and if it wasn't Helena tonight, it could have been a drug dealer tomorrow. And it could have been worse." He makes sure Oliver is looking at him before adding, "And if you weren't out there doing what you do, it _would_ be."

Oliver nods once, and, sensing that he needs a change in subject, Felicity tries for a lighter note. "You can decide what to do later," she assures him, "but for now, everyone needs a break. Let's go get something to eat— _all_ of us." She looks at Diggle, wanting to include him, too. They haven't had many opportunities to talk since Oliver was nearly dying on a table in front of them, and she'd like to remedy that. It almost seems surreal, the thought of her and her boys actually sitting down to eat at a restaurant, instead of in bites between programming computers and beating each other senseless with sticks. "We never get to meet up unless there's a crisis in the city, so let's take a rare opportunity to get away from the gloom and doom."

Diggle offers her a smirk before crossing his arms and answering dryly, "And be the third wheel?" The smile on his face lets them both know he's teasing. "You two haven't had a chance to see each other all day—no way am I going to get in the middle of that. But I _will_ take a raincheck, and we'll stop fighting crime long enough to have a meal as friends."

"I'll hold you to it," Felicity answers after a long moment, before turning back to Oliver. "I guess it's just you and me, then." She bites her lip, thinking about their earlier conversation, how he was going to stay the night at her place. "And that... _other_ offer still stands."

With a surprisingly wide smile, he replies easily, "Are you asking me on a _date?_ "

It takes her a moment to respond, but she's pleased to find Oliver _teasing_ her for a change, since it seems to be a rare occurrence now. Back when Oliver was still hiding behind the mask as the Arrow, it was more common, but she thinks he's still unsure how she'll respond now that she knows the truth. Maybe he felt more… uninhibited when he thought she had no expectations of him.

"No," she replies after a long pause. "But if that works for you, go with it." She's surprised by how flirty the moment is; by the time she finishes, Felicity is leaning toward him, so close that she has to crane her neck upward to look at him.

Naturally, his response is to kiss her. She expects it to be short and chaste, but Oliver has other ideas about it. And Felicity decides that she'll let Oliver win this round—after all, she really can’t think of a reason to argue with him when he’s kissing her like that.

“And that’s _exactly_ what I was talking about,” Diggle says from his side of the elevator, and Felicity breaks away instantly, face flushing. “I’m glad you’re happy together, but sometimes I think you two need a bucket of ice water.” The elevator chimes, and Oliver pulls away from Felicity—albeit reluctantly, her ego notes—before the doors open and the act goes into place again. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Oliver and Felicity both murmur their goodbyes before she turns for her car. A hand on her shoulder stops her immediately. “Where are you going?” he asks her, seeming genuinely curious about the idea. “We can pick up your car after dinner.” She thinks it’s amusing how quickly he’s trying to move things along—as though he’s afraid she’ll change her mind. As though there’s a possibility of that happening.

Felicity means to answer, but she’s interrupted by the buzzing of Oliver’s phone. He winces in apology before pulling it out of the inside pocket of his coat, and she watches him frown when he recognizes the caller. He clearly presses the “Ignore” button because he doesn’t answer it, only slipping it back into his pocket before looking at her expectantly again. Now that she thinks about it, she watched him do the same thing twice already tonight—someone must really want to talk to him.

Under different circumstances, she’d say something to make him laugh, but he’s so serious that the smile falls from her face. “My car is in the employee lot,” she answers, pointing over her shoulder to it. “The last time I left it here, though—it was an accident—someone stole it. I’ll meet you at my apartment before we go because I clearly need to change.” She motions to her hair, falling out of its ponytail, and the now impressive bruises on her shoulder and elbow that are exposed. “I’d like to look a little less… damsel-in-distress.”

“You look brave,” he corrects her quietly, a peculiar expression on his face. Felicity honestly doesn’t know what to say to that; Oliver has achieved a miracle and rendered her speechless with that statement.

She’s saved from having to answer when her cell phone starts ringing, and she jumps slightly at the heavy guitar of the ringtone. As she fishes it out of her bag, the singer asked where his self-control went, and Felicity questions her own for deciding to use that ringtone. She can feel his eyes on her, and her face flushes without seeing the raised eyebrow she knows is there, the question that he probably will want to ask later.

Without looking at the screen, she answers; after all, varied ringtones give her the luxury of knowing who her caller is. Sighing, she huffs, “Don’t you have a nightclub to run? I’ve already been harassed enough for one night.”

“Oh, no, Smoaky, you don’t get to blame me for this,” Tommy responds over the blaring sound of techno music. “I didn’t _want_ to call you, but Oliver isn’t answering his phone.” He sighs. “One minute he was talking to you on the phone, and the next he’s leaving with a look on his face that screams, ‘I’m about to go break someone’s face.’” She laughs lightly as he continues. “I just wanted to make sure that both of you were okay.”

“We’re okay, Merlyn,” she assures him, then looks up at Oliver. “Helena stopped by to say hello. I have a few bruises, but nothing like your wrist.” She can practically hear him worrying through the phone. “I’m _fine_ , Tommy. We took care of it.” She smiles at Oliver. “As for Oliver, he’s standing right here, and he’s okay, too.” He frowns at that, as if he didn’t want to talk to Tommy, but she isn’t done yet. “I’m about to drive home, so you should call Oliver—I think he needs to talk about what happened tonight. He won’t say it, but it bothered him, and his best friend needs to talk some sense into him.”

Oliver chuckles slightly, though it’s clear he isn’t pleased about her meddling. “Well, if _you_ can’t beat it into his skull, I don’t know what good I’m going to be,” Tommy replies. “But I’ll give it a shot.” He changes the subject, though she knows he’ll do as she asks. “By the way, that kid you told me about? Roy? He’s been doing a great job—best valet we have on staff. Thanks for letting me know about him.” He hesitates. “You know he has a record, right? He’s stolen a few cars, apparently—he told me about it on the first day. Then he told me he grew up in that, but decided he wanted something more.”

She bites her lip for a moment because she remembers those words, and she’s glad to make a breakthrough. “Oh, his record is more varied than that,” Felicity replies, and Oliver’s eyebrows knit together. “I believe the full list is robbery, breaking and entering, a few petty thefts, and _then_ the stolen car.” Oliver studies her for a long moment, but just like he isn’t ready to talk about the island, she isn’t ready to discuss her past—either the part involving Roy or anything else about it. “But he’s a good kid, Tommy. He didn’t get off to the best start, but I think that, with a shove in the right direction, he could be capable of great things.”

“Well, the only thing I’m concerned about is that Thea seems to be spending a _lot_ of time around him,” he answers. “She asked about him when he missed his first day, and then he came back sounding very contrite. They’re _something_ to one another—and Oliver isn’t going to like that.”

“Trust me when I say you don’t even know the half of it,” she answers dryly, thinking about the stolen purse and the fact that she kept her involvement in that matter from Oliver at Thea’s request. Felicity realizes she mistook Oliver’s frown for irritation instead of impatience when he makes a motion with his hand, asking her quietly to hand over the phone. “Um, Oliver wants to talk to you,” she says slowly, handing him the phone.

He takes it from her with a smile, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, Tommy,” he says lightly, and Felicity knows that he’s leading up to something. “Can Felicity call you back later? It’s after eleven now and we’re still at Queen Consolidated. We both need something to eat, and then Felicity will be up at six again to be at work tomorrow.” She likes that he doesn’t ask her not to go in or try to fight her on it—he knows her too well for that. Felicity hasn’t taken a sick day in all her years working for QC, and she’s not about to start now because of Helena Bertinelli. There’s a short pause, and then he replies, “We’ll talk to you tomorrow, Tommy. Bye.” Then he smiles at her and hands the phone back to her.

She studies Oliver and his satisfied smirk for a long moment before the words come rushing out without permission: “I do realize I’m talking to the guy who runs around at night in tight-fitting green leather and puts arrows into evildoers, but you do know that was a new level of over-the-top, right? Even for you.” The barely contained smile makes its way onto her face, and she knows it negates her message.

He lifts one shoulder in a flippant shrug, replying with that smirk, “You don’t seem to mind.”

 

* * *

 

McKenna Hall sighs as she changes the channel on her hospital TV, frowning at the screen. The hardest part of this injury, she thinks, is that she has to remain bedridden for a few more days before she can even be transported to Coast City. Despite the fact she’ll never be able to be a police officer again, that’s the thing that is most difficult to come to terms with right now: the boredom.

After a long few hours of meditation, she decides that she has no one to blame but herself for her predicament. She should have waited for backup as advised, she should have let the two vigilantes battle it out and then arrested the victor—she should have done a lot of things. But now it’s over and she has to live with her mistakes—and the consequences of them, like the fact that it will be nothing short of a miracle if she ever even _walks_ again.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s late and it always puts her on edge, or maybe it’s because she has the instincts of a cop, but something puts her on high alert. It’s not even a motion or a sound, but a ghost of a feeling that tells her something has very much changed in the span on a second. Her hand immediately goes to her hip, only to remember that her gun isn’t there. McKenna tries to stand instead, to call a nurse—if even to make up a lie later to ease her own nerves—but her injured leg protests the action by collapsing under her. Upper body strength and the rails of the hospital bed are all that prevent her from falling, and she somehow manages to hoist herself up on the bed.

She wants to call out—like she would to a suspect if she was armed with a gun—but then she thinks of the cocktail of drugs in her system that could be causing her to act paranoid or see things that aren’t there. The last thing she wants to do is scream at thin air and cause an uproar, but it's feeling more and more like the right option.

Something shifts in her line of vision, and she realizes that the shadow by her window isn’t a shadow at all. He’s able to use the shadows as camouflage somehow, able to use them to move almost invisibly in the darkness. When he steps forward, it’s almost out of thin air, and it doesn’t take McKenna long to realize who it is; the bow in his hand is a dead giveaway.

His presence reminds her of the night’s previous events. She had stumbled upon the scene behind the house to find the Vigilante and the Huntress fighting one another—an outcome she hadn’t expected. Apparently they had a difference of opinion, but they had turned against each other, making it easier for her to sneak up undetected.

She had called out to them in traditional police standard, and Bertinelli had willingly surrendered. However, the Vigilante was another story; instead of giving up, he simply kept is nocked bow aimed at Bertinelli, ignoring the police officer behind him. _This only ends one way, Detective_ , he had said to her, his voice resolute under the synthesizer.

Even though she’s young, McKenna likes to think she’s a good detective because she understands people well—reads them quickly and easily. The Vigilante’s stance had been sure, and she had no doubt he was perfectly prepared to kill the Huntress. In her limited experience, she’d fortunately never had the pleasure of talking someone down from a ledge, but that’s exactly what she had attempted that night.

 _With you killing her?_ McKenna had answered. _Look, I may not see it and the police department may disagree with it, but the people of this city have started to look up to you. They don’t see you as a murderer anymore, but a savior. A protector. They look to you because you’ve protected them more than even the police can. If you kill her, how does that make you any better than_ her? _How does that make you a person this city can admire?_

It had resulted in a long moment between them, one filled with still silence. Finally, after what had felt like lifetimes, the Vigilante had lowered his bow to the ground in surrender, but Bertinelli had seized that opportunity to pick up her crossbow.

McKenna wrestles with the idea of the call button—if he wanted to hurt her, he would have done so already—but he doesn’t give her the opportunity to press it. He holds his bow out in front of him, turning it horizontally in his hand. “I’m not here to hurt you, Detective,” he states quietly, confirming her suspicions.

She crosses her arms, trying not to let her relief show on her face. “Then what _do_ you want?” she demands of him. “I could be arrested just for talking to you. And I’ve already lost my career today and possibly the ability to walk a few hours ago—I think that’s enough for one day.”

He hesitates before answering her question, as though the answer more complicated than the question appears. “If you hadn’t stopped me,” he answers slowly, “I would have killed her.” McKenna can’t tell if it’s the synthesizer that causes it, but, either way, the eerie calm in his voice sends a shiver down his spine. It takes her a moment, but she realizes this isn’t a man on a killing spree—this is someone who has become a murderer for the sake of _survival_. Kill or be killed.

It makes her wonder what Hell he saw before making his mark on Starling City.

From the time McKenna had started working with him, Quentin had been very vocal about the fact that the violence and unmistakable focus had made the Vigilante a danger to the city. His killing spree had only intensified their fears; bodies dropping meant that innocents were more likely to get caught in the crossfire. But his casual statement brings up concerns she’d never thought of before: he’s killed before, and there’s nothing to stop him from starting again.

“You’ve stopped killing,” she answers. “I thought there might have been a reason for that.” She decides she doesn’t want to give him the wrong impression about it. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a murderer and should still be arrested, but at least you don’t have a body count piling up behind you now.”

“There is a reason,” he assures her immediately. There’s a long moment of hesitation, and he shifts his weight before continuing, “I don’t want to be the monster I used to be.” The word _monster_ brings new meaning; clearly McKenna isn’t the only one who loses sleep over the men he’s killed—the ones she and Quentin couldn’t save. “A friend taught me I didn’t have to be a killer to save this city. She taught me I could find redemption.” The feminine pronoun is something McKenna tucks away for later, and she’ll decide then if she wants to pass that on to Quentin. “I can’t change the person I was, but I can try to be someone else. Thank you for reminding me of that.” He chuckles humorlessly. “And I repaid you for it with this.”

McKenna studies him for a long moment, surprised to find such a tortured soul under the hood. She expected to find a ruthless killer with a cruel streak, one with confidence and arrogance and his own personal Messiah Complex. This isn’t a self-righteous man, but a conflicted one. “As much as I’d like to blame you for what happened tonight,” she answers, “Helena Bertinelli was the one with the crossbow. You were the one who applied pressure to the wound until backup arrived.” She pulls herself up more on the bed before crossing her arms again. “I saved you, and you saved me. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.” The message there is clear in her tone: she’s not going to do him any favors because he saved her life. It’s over, as though tonight never happened.

She watches the tension drain out of his stance, in the way his shoulder slump ever so slightly. Only then does she understand that she’s absolved him of his guilt over what happened, and that it’s important enough to impact him so drastically. He must sense the finality in her tone, the reluctant understanding now formed between them over a common enemy, because he very nearly vanishes into thin air by sinking back into the shadows.

“Goodbye, McKenna,” he says from everywhere and nowhere at once, and she knows by his tone that it’s final. He’s never going to seek her out again, never going to darken her door or infringe upon her life again. They’ve made their peace, come to an understanding about their respective roles in society.

“Goodbye,” she echoes, and the responding silence lets her know the Arrow has walked out of her life for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy’s ringtone is based on the song “I’m Not a Vampire” by Falling in Reverse, if you were wondering.
> 
>  **Look for a side story somewhere between this chapter and Tuesday, December 30.** It will be called “Optimization of System Performance,” and, uh, I need to finish writing it. :P (But it will be done by then—don’t you worry!)
> 
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> 
> **The next post is on December 30 because I’m working around holidays. (Yes, it’s on a Tuesday.) We’ll be back to normal schedule on January 8.**
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> Also, just because we’re creeping up on the holidays, I thought I’d hold a **Tumblr Q &A** just for fun. Ask any questions you want about TA, upcoming works, my opinions on the show, my day-to-day life, and I’ll answer 100% honestly (other than questions that probably shouldn’t be answered on the Internet). There will be no passes, no “I don’t think I’m going to answer that” response, no floundering around the question. Anything you throw at me, _I will answer honestly and completely to the best of my ability_. I’m going to be answering questions on **Monday, December 22** , so if you want to drop those in my box early, go for it. If you want to wait until Monday, that’s fine too—I’ll be here. Anonymous is enabled, so bear that in mind.
> 
> May your holidays be merry and bright, my dears! ;) And thanks again for being nice enough to read!


	38. Signal Interception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's supposed to be an easy mission, but if it was one, there would be no point in writing a chapter about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK IN THE NEW YEAR, GUYS. As I've been saying on Tumblr recently, I haven't been this excited to post since I originally started posting this story. Now that I'm not trying to balance the world's most ridiculous courseload with 15 hours a week on the road, the writing is coming a whole lot easier. I hope to charge into battle, as it were, with a strong beginning in 1.18 Salvation. Any comments and reviews are welcome, but thanks just for reading. It's been a huge journey thus far, so thank you for sticking with it! :)

Felicity takes a moment to wonder when things became so easy in the lair, when the tension left for her. Even though Oliver is out in the field risking his neck yet again, she feels comfortable and more at peace than she has in years. Somehow the lair has turned from some cold, ominous basement into a second home for her. In fact, if she’s being honest, she spends more time here than at home.

The sound of a the heavy door slamming behind her makes her jump and swivel her chair, sighing loudly in equal parts relief and annoyance when she finds Tommy standing there. “Never thought I’d see the day where I _wanted_ someone to have Oliver’s stealth skills,” she remarks dryly to him, “but it has arrived. What is it with you two and this thing you have for scaring me?” Then she tilts her head to the side because in her time, Tommy has only been down in the lair twice. “And, don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

“Is there a _right_ way to take that?” Tommy remarks dryly, but Felicity watches as he grabs an old shop chair—the kind with the fold-out ladder underneath that’s probably a remnant from the factory—and pulls it up next to her. Then he sighs deeply, leaning over to prop his elbows on an empty section of Felicity’s desk. “And honestly? I haven’t really been sure if I _wanted_ to come down here, Smoaky.” He frowns now with some expression that looks odd on his face, one that Felicity doesn’t recognize. “Oliver is my best friend and I know he’s doing this for a reason, but…” He falters, and Felicity is finally able to put a name to that expression: doubt. “But it’s hard to forget all the things they keep saying about the Hood—just reprogram myself after all of this.”

“The Arrow,” Felicity corrects automatically, and Tommy looks at her as though it’s a trivial correction. She just answers the expression with one of her own. “The Hood doesn’t exist, Tommy—at least, not anymore.” She hesitates. “Oliver was the Hood when I met him—or maybe I didn’t get to see that side of him at all. But the point is that he hasn’t been that person for a very long time now. He isn’t what they think.”

Tommy doesn’t quite look convinced, so she presses on. “I know it’s easy go get wrapped up in the mistakes, but we’re actually doing some _good_ in this city.” She motions to the security cameras on her monitor. “Right now, do you know who Oliver is on his way to stop? John Nickel. One of his buildings burned down last night and killed people because the wiring wasn’t up to code. He’s using cheap materials to save money, and _seven people_ have frozen to death in more buildings just this year.” She shrugs. “But the slums are in the Glades, and the cops can’t keep up with the crime rate as it is, without adding more investigations to the mix. So this is who Oliver is trying to stop.” She studies him a moment. “Sometimes the methods were wrong, but at least we’re doing _something_ to stop the bleeding. That’s more than can be said for anyone else in this city.”

Tommy leans over to look at something on her computer screen, still somewhat reserved about the situation, but he clears his throat and waves a hand over the monitors. “So, what is it that you do on this team?” he asks slowly. “You… stare at a computer screen and patch me up when Oliver’s psycho ex tries to break my wrist?”

Felicity allows herself a small smile, even though she’s trying to watch the screens for Oliver. “I’m technical support,” she replies finally, though it does quite seem to be enough. “I keep an eye on the traffic cameras, build bugs, cyber-stalk bad guys, and hack into secure law enforcement databases. That kind of thing.” She shrugs, then waves a hand. “And then I occasionally do some field work, like helping Oliver with the on-site computers at the SCPD, doing field triage on your dad, and tracking jewel thieves.” Unconsciously, her hand goes to her throat during that last one, and she ignores the impulse to make a face.

Tommy’s eyes widen for a moment before his expression goes carefully blank. “Ollie lets you do field work?” he asks slowly, his tone reproachful as if Oliver is going to get an earful about this little fact when he returns.

Felicity snorts. “He doesn’t _let_ me do anything,” she answers flatly. “He doesn’t like it, but he knows when he isn’t going to win.” She crosses her arms, swiveling to look at the man beside her. “There’s one thing you probably don’t understand about this team, Tommy, and it’s that none of us are blind to what we’re walking into. Oliver has told Diggle and I that we can walk away whenever we want—that we can choose how many risks we want to take. I don’t speak for Digg, but it’s _my_ life I’m putting on the line, which means it’s ultimately my choice. I choose to help pick up the slack when I’m needed in the field. And I will always choose to save Oliver’s ass, despite what he wishes I’d do.”

Tommy is silent for a long moment, clearly thinking about that statement. Neither try to speak again before Felicity hears Oliver’s comm turn on, so she sends it through the speaker instead of the headset. “Felicity,” he states through the synthesizer, his voice grave in a way that makes her stomach drop, “we have problem.”

“Is that Oliver?” Tommy asks, to which she nods before miming to him to keep his mouth shut.

Turning to her computer, she looks at the screens for any signs of trouble as Oliver continues, “Nickels is gone.”

She squints at her screens, trying to make sense of the information and the seemingly quiet street outside the building that’s currently on her screen. “What do you mean, _gone?_ Like lying-dead-on-the-floor gone, or gotta-party-be-back-in-the-morning gone, or skipped-town-to-avoid-the-IRS gone?”

“He’s gone,” Oliver reiterates, and at times like this, his succinct speech makes her want to throw something at him. “Judging by the blood on the floor, I think he was taken forcibly. Digg’s headed back to you now, and I’m five minutes behind him. I need a location when I get back—we need to find him.”

“I’m on it,” she answers before shutting off the comm link, turning back to her computers and pulling up the security feed for the day and going over it carefully. “Now, if I were someone who kidnapped corrupt millionaires in my spare time,” she mutters to herself, “what would I look like?”

“Wait,” Tommy says from beside her, his eyebrows furrowing together. “So, Oliver was just about to go put arrows in this guy—in non-lethal places—and _now_ you’re trying to _save_ him? How does _that_ make any sense?”

Felicity shrugs. “It’s true, Oliver is the king of grr-stop-being-bad-or-I’ll-arrow-you”—she claws the air with one hand for emphasis—”but if someone is out there taking down the same bad guys, that’s something we need to contain, too. We could certainly use the help if this guy is game, but if he’s a killer, he’s given the rest of the guys in the Book a little longer to tremble in fear.”

Tommy chuckles at that, but he still seems a little hesitant. Still, he's quiet until Diggle arrives, looking at Felicity expectantly, as though she should already have something. Before he can even ask, she complains, "You two are impossible to impress, you know that?" With an exasperated tone she doesn't feel and a partial smile, she adds, "No matter what I do, it's never good enough for you."

Diggle offers her a small smile. "Well, you're down here with us most nights, so we expect you to be amazing just for putting up with us. Felicity, you do enough impossible things for Oliver and I that we don't even recognize it anymore—consider it a compliment."

She shakes her head in response, smiling a little wider because she knows he means it. "I'm doing the best I can here, Digg—complimenting me like that won't make me work any faster," she replies jokingly, earning herself a quiet laugh from the man.

"Well, for what it's worth," Tommy adds, "Ollie was hopeless with computers— _before_ spending five years away from civilization. For all he knows about them, he probably thinks you're waving a magic wand and casting spells to get this information, Smoaky." He offers her a lopsided grin, the one that usually precedes flirting. "I may not think you're a wizard, but it sounds to me like you're a pretty big part of this team."

With a roll of her eyes, Felicity remarks dryly, "Don't throw that flirty smile at me, Merlyn—flattery will get you nowhere. And you better watch yourself—I'm in a happy, committed relationship."

A hand falls on her shoulder, careful yet firm at the same time, and she knows it isn't Digg or Tommy. "That's good to know," Oliver says from just above her ear, and then he leans in further to kiss her cheek as though he's been doing it for years.

That's yet another thing that's surprised Felicity about this relationship: the ease of it all. Whatever she had with Oliver before—flirting with that line between friends and something more—had been a challenge, complex and frustrating at times. Now, though they still argue at times, what they have is like breathing air—natural and just as important to their lives.

More importantly, Felicity thinks that both of them understand that their pasts don't impact their relationship in any way. Even after that run-in with Roy and Thea when Felicity's years in foster care were brought to light, Oliver hasn't asked about it. Felicity thinks it's because he simply doesn't care—maybe he understands how his past, horrible as it may have been, shaped him and thinks hers did the same. She honestly feels the same way about the island; if he wants to tell her, she'll listen, but it doesn't matter because they're both here now, together.

"What do you have on Nickels?" Oliver asks, interrupting her reverie. Instead of sounding demanding, however, his voice is soft, casually asking the question.

"Not a miracle worker, Oliver," she reminds him gently, her lips turning up at the corners. "I'm scanning security footage now, and I work better if you're not hovering around me." She waves a hand dismissively. "So go attack a training dummy, make arrows, or beat Digg with the sticks again—I'll let you know when I have something."

He chuckles and turns to leave, but she catches the hem of his jacket, pulling him back with a smile. He seems surprised by the action, probably because she usually doesn't do things like this. "Just don't hang from the ceiling like Spider-Man again—I too was worried you would fall and break something to work." Her hand moves to his upper arm, silently asking him to lean forward, and he obliges. "And don't go for the salmon ladder either. I can't work while you're doing that, either, but for _very_ different reasons."

Oliver leans in further until she can feel his breath fanning her face, the corners of his mouth ticking upward. "I'll have to remember that," he murmurs quietly, his eyes darkening in the way that always makes her breath catch. She expects him to do something dramatic—the last time he did that, she ended up making out with him against a door—but instead he presses a chaste kiss to her mouth before pulling back.

Again, she wants to throw something at him, but it's a different kind of frustration this time.

It takes her a long, dazed moment to get her bearings back, but she sobers quickly when she hears Oliver say, "Digg, get your gear together—we're going to mark at least one name off the List tonight."

She rises from her seat at that, and whatever expression is on her face makes Tommy say to Oliver, "It was nice knowing you, buddy."

Felicity ignores him in favor of talking to Oliver. "So you're just going to charge after another guy on the List?" she demands, and Oliver flashes her a frustrated frown before turning away. Trying to escape her, Felicity notes; after all, if he walks away, he doesn't have to argue with her.

It doesn't work, though, because she follows him; he should know by now that she isn’t so easily dissuaded. "Look, I get you have the Arrow-blinders on, but don't you think it would be better to do this one at a time? It won't take me that long to find Nickels, and you're going to wear yourself out at this rate. You've been pushing hard this week, Oliver—take a break while I'm trying to find this guy." She turns back to Diggle. "You haven't had anything to eat yet tonight, have you?"

Diggle—God bless him—picks right up on the direction she's heading. "No, I haven't," he answers, "and I think we could all use something." Then he looks at Oliver, studying him for a moment. "Come on, man, let's run over to Big Belly Burger—give Felicity some space to work without all of us hovering over her shoulder."

Oliver sighs, probably because he knows _exactly_ what they're doing and can't find a good reason to argue. "I'll call you when if I find something before you get back," Felicity offers, so he doesn't have to voice his agreement. Louder, she adds, "And take Tommy with you—I need a break from this sea of testosterone." She waves a hand. "If you don't do something about it soon, I may have to start bringing plants down here, Oliver."

This time when he smiles, he shakes his head at her ever so slightly. "I know it's serious if you're threatening me with potted plants," he answers dryly, and then he sobers suddenly. "Thank you."

She can feel her eyebrows furrow together, her mouth turning down in a confused frown. "For what?" He answers by placing a hand on her shoulder, and she knows the words he can't bring himself to say.

_For saving me from myself._

 

* * *

 

Tommy watches the three walk into Verdant via the front entrance, charging through the mass of bodies at nearly two a.m. Oliver is clearly leading the pack, Felicity speaking to him with wild, frantic hand motions, stopping only to wave at the Glades kid—Roy—who has graduated to waiting tables. Surprisingly, the kid waves back, seeming not to notice that Oliver is with her.

The way they’re moving and talking makes him think they have more issues than the ones they discovered last night while at Big Belly Burger. They were supposed to go home because they were out of options, but something has changed and Tommy is willing to be it’s the Savior. Curious, he follows them, Oliver turning back in the middle of his statement to look at his friend while always moving forward.

The conversation at Big Belly Burger had been easy and flowing like it had in the old days, where the island didn’t create an undertone in every conversation. Tommy and Diggle had even prodded at Ollie a little, and he took it in stride with an easy smile. For the first time since he discovered Oliver’s other identity, Tommy felt like he was actually seeing Oliver, instead of some façade concocted to prevent anyone from learning the Arrow’s name.

But, as always, the moment had passed, and suddenly some whackjob started streaming video of John Nickel, on some righteous journey to save the Glades. Before Oliver could even get back to the basement, Nickels was dead, the recording device was knocked off its stand just before the sound of what Tommy would guess to be two gunshots and a threat of another victim. Despite her attempts to track him, Felicity had said that they would have to wait for the next broadcast.

Now he guesses that they have another one to work with.

They all settle into the lair at their various positions: Oliver grabbing his bow and suit, Diggle sliding a headset over his ear, and Felicity already typing at her computers. Tommy takes the seat he left next to the desk, asking the blonde, “What’s happening?”

She holds out a headset that looks similar to hers and Diggle’s. “Put that in, but don’t say anything,” she answers. When he takes it, she goes back to typing. “The guy took an assistant district attorney—Gavin Carnahan. We finally have a name for the Savior—Joseph Falk—but the guy’s a ghost. This is the only way we’ll catch him.”

Oliver charges out of the bathroom in full Arrow gear, hood pulled up and mask over his eyes. This is the first time Tommy has seen him like that since his father nearly died, and for the first time he sees the Arrow in a similar light as Felicity. It’s different, he decides, knowing that your friend is the one under the hood. “Do you have the trace?” he asks tersely, clearly in full let’s-put-arrows-in-rich-guys mode.

“Running it now,” Felicity answers. “I should have a location to you by the time you get to that damn motorcycle.” The way she says it makes her mouth turn upward, and judging by the matching smile on Oliver’s face, Tommy assumes it’s some sort of private joke between them.

Oliver sobers quickly, though, switching immediately into that growly mood that Tommy experienced for the first time last night. “Can’t you use that air magnet thing?” Oliver asks, the synthesizer already switched on and sounding ominous. “You said that it could trace—”

As expected, Felicity cuts him off with a sharp, “Oliver!” He turns to study her with a frown, and she pulls her hands away from the keyboard to cross her arms. “I love you, but don’t tell me how to my job. You go use your fighter mojo on Falk, and I’ll use my computer mojo on his network.” Then, without another word or any irritation on her features, she turns back to her computer and starts typing into it.

It’s the first time Tommy has seen them argue, but now he understands how Felicity wins against one of the most stubborn men he’s even had the pleasure to know. It’s no secret that, even before the island, when Oliver made up his mind no one could change it. But Felicity’s gentle start with a touch of steel seems to be exactly how to get through to him. Either that, or she’s learned that a well-timed “I love you” can move even the unshakable Oliver Queen.

A few seconds later, just as Oliver is attempting to leave, she calls out, “I have his signal! There’s a firewall so I can’t stop it, but he’s working off an IP address at 23rd and Mira.”

The basement is eerily quiet when Oliver leaves, and now Tommy understands that maybe what Felicity goes through every night is more difficult than what Oliver faces. She can’t see what he’s doing, can’t hear if he won’t answer. So she sits and worries and somehow manages to be good-natured about it—with the exception of being told what to do, apparently.

The only scene they have access to is watching the feed that the Savior provides, and Tommy knows as the DA stumbles and stutters over his words that he’s not going to see daylight ever again. The Savior is angry over the death of his wife, and really, Tommy thinks there isn’t a _possible_ good argument to convince someone why a person they loved is dead and their killers still roam free. God knows if anything ever happened to Laurel, he wouldn’t even bother with a farce like this—not when they all know how it’s going to end, provided that Oliver doesn’t stop him.

“How’s Carnahan?” Oliver interrupts, but Felicity is still typing—probably trying to find a way to stop the broadcast.

“Not making a very persuasive argument, Ollie,” Tommy answers, even though they told him to stay quiet. The least he can do is give status updates so that the others won’t have to ignore their jobs. “I think he’s winding it up—you need to hurry.”

Finally, after a long pause, Oliver’s voice breaks through the silence again, demanding and dark. “He’s not here, Felicity! I’ve tried every floor and every office—no sign of him.” In a quieter tone, he asks her, “Are you sure this is the right place?” It’s not a question of the result or her ability, but a plea to double-check the facts.

She’s already typing again by the time he finishes, immediately responding. “Yeah, I’m sure I—” She stops as the map pans to something else, eyes going wide as she mutters, “Oh, shit.” Louder, she continues talking to Oliver. “I don’t know how he did it—it’s not possible—but… he moved! Just north of you—at Ocean and Grand.”

“On my way,” comes the terse reply, and now Felicity sits doing nothing, staring at the scene unfolding on the second monitor.

“Gavin Carnahan,” the masked voice says, this one sounding much more ominous than Oliver’s. Tommy feels his stomach drop because he knows what’s coming next, and it isn’t going to be good. “I find you guilty of crimes against the Glades, and I sentence you to death.”

Oliver’s voice cuts into the drama, and it does nothing for Tommy’s nerves. “I’m at Ocean and Grand, Felicity,” he calls out to her. “There’s nothing here—it’s just a vacant lot. Give me a new location.”

Gunshots fire on the other screen, and Tommy doesn’t know who jumps worse—him or Felicity. Her mouth hangs open, trying to speak though no sound is coming out. Tommy pulls the headset off his ear, then hesitantly reaches out to touch her shoulder. “Felicity,” he tries gently.

The word spurs her into action, and she immediately yanks the headset from her ear, standing up in a stiff moment before charging out via the bar exit. Tommy isn’t sure what to do, but he knows that he won’t be able to say anything that can make this better for her. Instead, he turns to Diggle, a man who knows her better than Tommy. Granted he isn’t Oliver, but Tommy doesn’t think she needs to be alone to wallow in this until Oliver gets back. “Go after her,” he says quietly to Diggle. “I’ll…” He swallows. “I’ll tell Ollie what happened.”

He turns back to the desk, the sound of retreating footsteps telling him that Diggle is doing as he asked. When he slips the headset over his ear, it’s to Oliver’s synthesized voice yelling, “I need the right address, Felicity—now!”

Tommy takes a deep breath before answering, “Ollie, it’s over. Carnahan is dead. I think you need to get back.”


	39. Physical Memory Dump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity tries to deal with the aftermath of a mission failure. While that typically involves copious amounts of ice cream, chocolates, and rom-coms in real life, it doesn't really satisfy the plot line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/0UxZKiiSEW6tt1YvSebVPz). (Excludes "Oh! Darling," which isn't available on Spotify. Apparently Beatles songs aren't available. Huh.)
> 
> This chapter sort of went in a different direction than I expected, but I liked it enough that I stuck with it and let the story unfold the way it wanted to. That being said, I enjoyed bringing in some characters that I haven’t written in a while, and to have them interact in ways I haven’t really worked with before. I hope you guys like it, too! :) It is phenomenal the kind of feedback I’m getting over this story, and I appreciate it so much. Reviews and comments are always helpful, but I’m just glad that someone is still reading this. ;)
> 
> **On another note,** I have a new side story for you guys that I wrote last week, too. It’s called **Corrupted File Removal** , and it should go up Tuesday—probably bright and early because I’ll be up bright and early, unfortunately.

Felicity has never thought much about sounds. They’re simply background and interaction with the world, something that she’s come to expect in her life that can mean a myriad of different things. They’re loud and startling sometimes, quiet and gentle during others, but never too much to think about for too long.

She’s heard the phrase about having “a sound go through you,” of course, but she’s never experienced it until the poor-sound-quality gunshot rings out through the speakers on her computer, drowning out Oliver and all the other sounds playing around her. She might as well have been shot herself for the effect it has on her; everything goes cold and eerily silent for a moment as she realizes the man on screen—the man she was supposed to be saving—was alive a moment ago, but now dead. For a moment, all she can do is stare, the word “ _no_ ” resounding loudly in her head as she hopes that in a moment she’ll wake up and this can all be a nightmare.

But then Tommy says her name—quietly, carefully, but at the same time a call to action—and she realizes that this isn’t a dream or hallucination. Suddenly the air seems to be sucked out of the room, an eerie quiet falling over them. She can’t stay any longer, can’t deal with this. Almost as though someone set her switch to autopilot, she pulls the headset from her ear, stands almost robotically and manages to put one foot in front of the other. For some reason, she goes for the club exit instead of the one that leads outside, and the thumping bass makes her realize it almost immediately.

She frowns, deciding that maybe she should retreat into Oliver’s office in the club and call Barry. She needs to talk to someone about this… _thing_ that happened tonight, before she breaks down. But then she realizes that both her cell phone and the keys to Oliver’s office are in the lair, and she didn’t have the foresight to grab either one.

Instead of retreating back downstairs—she can’t go back there, not yet—she decides to go for the upper level for the first time. The noise makes it hard for her to think, and she wants to be suitably numb for a while, in a place where Tommy or Digg or whomever won’t think to look for her. She’ll collapse when she gets home, in the privacy of her own shower or bedroom, but for right now, she needs to keep it together. The blaring music makes thought almost impossible—makes her head throb in a way she doesn’t mind—and she decides to take a seat at one of the back tables on the second floor, hidden in the shadows where the laser lights don’t quite reach.

She slides onto the stool, just sitting there for a long moment with the bass so loud it makes her throb. Sighing, Felicity pulls the elastic out of her hair to help soothe her pounding head, sets her glasses on the table in front of her so she can rub at her tired eyes. She thinks of nothing but the music resonating in her head, soothing in an odd way that borders on meditative. After a long moment, she decides she could get used to doing this after really bad nights.

Felicity jumps when a voice calls over the synthesized beat, “Hey, what can I get you?” Startled, she looks up, and Roy’s eyes widen in recognition a moment after her surprise wears off. She doesn’t know what she expects, but it’s certainly not for him to slide onto the stool across from hers, just sitting and studying her for a moment. “You okay, Blondie?” he asks carefully, regarding her as though she’s a ticking bomb that might start crying at any moment, God forbid. “Because I’m going to be honest with you—you don’t _look_ okay.”

“Bad night,” she answers, telling him as much of the truth as she can manage. She doesn’t want to lie to Roy—they’re so similar in upbringing, and he might be the closest thing she has to Barry right now. But still, he can’t know all of the truth. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He turns himself to the side slightly, as though he’s about to leave. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks slowly. It’s a genuine offer; if she wants him to go, he’ll leave, probably because he understands that sometimes people need to be alone. Maybe he’s even come to _want_ to be alone over the years, and Felicity can’t fault him for that. His interactions with people probably have been more negative than positive—God knows hers have, too.

“No,” she says finally, releasing a breath as she does so. “I just don’t want to talk about tonight—I want to talk about something else.” She pulls the hair elastic over her wrist and puts her glasses back on with a smile that feels as phony as it probably looks. “How are things with you and Thea?”

He sighs, frowning as though he doesn’t want to talk about that either. “She doesn’t seem to understand what it’s like for us, Felicity,” is his answer. “Thea doesn’t understand having a job and still not being able to pay debts. Or the fact that the Glades scar you—that they turn _all_ of us into criminals at one point or another.” He looks up at her carefully. “Unless you have the will to get out. If I had, I wouldn’t have these debts or this… _lack_ of future ahead of me.” He sounds bleak, as though something is draining the fight out of him.

Felicity hesitates, then decides that the discussion of his criminal record isn’t good and needs her interference. “Roy,” she starts slowly, gaining speed as she goes, “I’m not going to ask you because I don’t want you to lie to me, but whatever is going on with you, promise me you won’t do anything stupid.” She pauses. “Or at least that you’ll be careful.”

He meets her eyes for the first time through the entire conversation. “I promise,” he answers, and she doesn’t know which one he’s referring to. But, then again, she probably doesn’t _want_ to know. His brow furrows. “You sure you’re okay, Felicity?” he asks after a long moment.

Felicity slides off her stool, deciding that maybe she can face reality again now. Taking a deep breath, she pats his upper arm. “I don’t know,” she answers, “but I’m better than I was. You should get back to work—I don’t want you getting yelled at because you’re sitting here talking to me.”

Roy studies her for a moment. “I won’t get yelled at if I bring back a nice tip,” he answers with a straight face, and then they both break into smiles together.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t push your luck,” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves, waving a hand. With a deep breath, Felicity makes it down the first set of stairs, then charges into the corridor of offices off to the side. While talking to Roy may have been a reprieve, it hits her again like a ton of bricks in the corridor.

She watched a man _die_ today.

She has to steady herself when she missteps, and suddenly it all comes rushing back with full clarity—and perhaps more than before. Watching him die hadn’t been the most horrible part of today, though that was certainly awful enough. No, it was the fact that it was _her_ fault. She was supposed to give Oliver the coordinates, and they were supposed to save him. She screwed up, and now a man is dead. When she makes a mistake at work, a program crashes. But here… someone _died_ because of her failure.

It’s a thought so sobering that it gives her the strength to move forward. She can’t stay here and wallow tonight—she needs to go home before she loses control of her emotions. She charges back into the lair, grateful that everyone seems to have left. With some awareness and life back in her, she dons her coat, grabs her purse, and pulls out her keys. This time Felicity goes for the rear exit, taking deep breaths and trying desperately to keep from even thinking for fear her mind will go back to what happened.

She's five steps from freedom when she knocks into Oliver.

He steadies her carefully, and despite how neutral her expression stays, he immediately frowns when he sees her. One of the many things she's always liked about Oliver is the way he doesn't ask questions he already knows the answer to, which is why he doesn't ask her if she's okay or what is wrong. Instead, he studies her a moment, then pulls her into him.

After a long moment, she finally pulls away with, "It's almost four a.m., Oliver—I need to get a shower and try to get back to this to figure out how he keeps evading me." Even to her own ears, her voice is flat and dull on its surface, with a little warble underneath that she can't seem to hide.

She tries to push past him, but he catches her arm, turning her back toward him. "You don't have to do this alone," he states quietly, his tone gentle. Then it changes when he's sure he has her attention. "I know this… _shook_ you, Felicity. That's not a weakness—you don't have to hide it from me." He hesitates, and he looks away this time, his voice quiet as he makes his confession: "I… I don't know how to be there for you, but… I want to be."

Suddenly staying strong seems like foolishness; she's spent a lifetime trying to hold it together—survived that way, even—but now things are different. Felicity wants to be Oliver's support for when things start to overwhelm him, but she never expected that he'd want to share the load equally. She probably should have expected it, but she’s spent the better part of her life learning to depend on herself and no one else. But Oliver isn’t just anyone—he’s someone who wants to be there during the bad days, even if he isn’t in the best shape to comfort her himself. He wants to at least try.

That's all it takes to break through the armor.

Even before she realizes the transition in her emotions, he cups her cheek, wiping away an errant tear with his thumb. Oliver pulls her in until his forehead touches hers, and with all the confidence and surety in the world states, "This wasn't your fault, Felicity." She's been trying to assure herself of that all night, but somehow when it comes out of his mouth, she finds herself starting to believe it.

"I've never seen anyone die before," she finally whispers, trying to push the image away. But she knows that no matter what, she won't forget Gavin Carnahan's death. She might even have nightmares about it. For a moment, she wonders how Oliver deals with it every day—how he manages get past the darkness and sadness, because he's suffered far more of this than her one little experience.

He hesitates for a long moment, clearly trying to think of what to say or do to give her any comfort. Finally he settles on, "Someone once told me that this is the thing with what we do—sometimes we lose. But we play with higher stakes, so when we lose, we lose big." Vaguely, she recognizes the words as her own, and it turns the corners of her mouth up ever so slightly. "It doesn't make the bad days any better, but sometimes it's all we have."

She hugs him, burying her face in his shoulder so deeply that all she can register for a moment is the smell of leather. His arms wrap around her instinctively, pulling her into him until she doesn't feel like they're separate people anymore. "I don't know how I ever thought I could deal with this alone," she admits, her voice muffled by the fabric. "It's so frustrating, thinking you can't talk to anyone about your day."

"If you ever need to tell someone about your day," he answers immediately, "you can always tell me. And I'll always listen." He pulls away from her to cup her face in his hands. "You don't have to do this alone anymore. You have me." Without waiting for her to answer, he pulls the keys from her hand, intertwining the fingers of the opposite hand with hers. “Give me a minute to change and I’ll take you home—you can get that shower and some sleep. Then we can come back here.”

Felicity stares at him a moment, thinking she _must_ look defeated if he isn’t going to try to argue with her. He seems to read her mind, replying to her expression, “When you take a hit, it’s hard to walk away. I wouldn’t ask you to.” He offers her a soft smile. “But you should get some rest.”

“I will,” she answers, and he’s leading her back toward her chair on his way to the downstairs bathroom. “But you have to promise to get some sleep, too, Oliver—I can tell when you haven’t slept in a while.” She hesitates a moment before calling, “Oliver?”

Something in her tone makes him turn, looking at her expectantly as he waits for whatever comes next. “Can we take the bike?” Felicity asks slowly, half confused with herself for even asking. But she wants to get lost in the lights of the city and the feel of the wind whipping at her for just a moment.

His smile is so genuinely happy that it makes her smile in spite of everything. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity stares at her computer screen as hope flickers out in yet another idea to track the Savior. She sighs at the screen, frustrated that today has yielded as few results as yesterday, then decides to brave her way through the audio footage again, her fingers clicking on the keyboard to the time of Diggle's strikes against the training dummy, practicing the pattern Oliver suggested.

When she and Oliver entered the lair at two in the afternoon, she had expected her resting state to help her mind focus on the task at hand. However, five hours later have proved otherwise, with no luck to show for it. Every idea she's had has led to a dead end, and she can practically hear the clock ticking in her head, counting down until the Savior takes his next victim. It's the last thing she wants, but, then again, it can't be helped—a dead end is a dead end.

She has some trepidation about the audio footage, since she doubts she'll respond to it better the second time, but Felicity knows it's unavoidable. Thinking better of playing the scene through her computer's speakers, she plugs in a pair of headphones on the table, hoping to push out the lair's background noise in the process of determining the Savior's. She purposely sets the audio software so that voice is filtered, hopefully so she doesn't have to hear Gavin Carnahan beg for his life again. It seems to work, and she focuses on the ambient background noise that plays louder than the speech now. It takes her a moment, but then she hears it: the distinct _clack clack clack_ in a rhythmic pattern, every two seconds or so.

She's focusing so hard that she nearly jumps out of her chair when someone touches her arm.

Felicity turns in the direction as she yanks out a headphone, simultaneously pressing the pause button on her keyboard. "When I told you to stop scaring me, Merlyn," she snaps with maybe a little too much force, "I didn't mean it as a suggestion. I’ve already reached my quota this week.”

He chuckles before sitting down in the chair he brought over yesterday, the one still at the edge of her desk. “Hey,” Tommy starts gently, “are you okay after yesterday? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you looked like hell.”

“Is there a _right_ way to take that?” she answers, mocking his question from yesterday, which brings a smile to both of their faces. “Yesterday was tough, but today is a new day. And today, we’re going to catch this guy when I figure out just how he evaded me.” Her elbow touches the desk her head resting on her hand. “While I’m always glad to talk to you, I’m kind of busy trying to catch a serial killer with a messiah complex. Is there another reason you came down here? Or did you just come to make sure I’m not freaking out?” She bites her lip. “Because I’m not freaking out. Well, more than I should be, I mean.”

Tommy actually laughs at that, as though she’s trying to be funny when she isn’t. “Actually, that was just a side-effect of being down here,” he admits. “I kind of need you to figure out why my security cameras in the club decided to crap out all at once.”

She crosses her arms, fully intending to give him grief before she does exactly what he’s asked. “So you want to pull me away from trying to track down a serial killer because your cameras are malfunctioning?” Felicity asks slowly, raising an eyebrow in question.

To her surprise, he chuckles awkwardly at the accusation, suddenly looking like Billy Sanders when he tried to ask twelve-year-old Felicity to the sixth-grade dance. “I, well…” he starts, then finally admits it. “Yeah, I was, but it can wait until you finish saving lives.”

Finally, she can’t hold a straight face anymore, doubling over in stitches of laughter as Tommy realizes he’s been had. “You know what, Smoaky?” he calls to her with a smile, his tone serious even though they both know he isn’t. “You just completely ruined our friendship with your guilt magic.” He waits until she sobers to continue. “Give me about a twenty minute head start—Laurel is upstairs and she doesn’t know about your tendency to spend your nights down here.” His head tilts to the side. “By the way, where is Oliver?”

Felicity turns back to her task of trying to make sense of the audio file, putting one headphone back in her ear before pointing upward to answer Tommy’s question, already focused back on her screen. She’s about to insert the other headphone when she hears Tommy exclaim, “Ollie, what the _hell?_ You have a basement full of workout equipment, and you’re hanging from the ceiling like Spider-Man?” She only shakes her head and puts the other headphone in place, turning back to her work.

She has no idea how long it’s been when someone taps her on the shoulder, and she turns around to face Diggle, removing her headphones again in the process. “Wanna tell me what has you making that face?” he asks her with a slight smile, offering help when he knows she needs it.

Pulling the headphones out of the input jack, she presses play on the isolated track again. “It’s almost rhythmic,” she comments after a moment. “Almost like a car driving over seams in the concrete, but it’s too big to be a car. Or a bus. Or a semi. I’m running out of vehicle sizes, Digg.”

He chuckles at her statement before closing his eyes, listening to the sound a little more closely. “I know this,” he says suddenly. “I’ve heard this before, but I can’t think where.” Frowning, his brow furrows together as he leans over the desk. “Could you show me the locations we have for Falk’s signal again?” She pulls up the map, and he runs a finger along the line that’s formed. “Locksley and Adams—along with Wells Street, down by CNRI.” He pulls back, looking at her now. “Felicity, those are old subway stops. Starling used to have a subway—my dad used to take us down to the Rockets game that way.”

Before he finishes, she’s already bringing up the old maps for the subway, overlaying it on top of the map of streets running through the Glades. “Twenty-Third and Mira,” she mutters mostly to herself, running a finger over the spot, “and here’s Ocean and Grand. He was a computer technician for the transportation department, so he knew about the old subway stops.”

Diggle puts a hand on her shoulder. “You gave Oliver the right locations, Felicity,” he says quietly, the weight in his voice reminding her that this wasn’t her fault. “He was just underground.” He leans back. “But it’s been twenty minutes, so I thought you might want to go fix Tommy’s problem. Oliver already went up to make an appearance.”

Felicity stands immediately, grabbing her coat and purse for effect and waving over her shoulder while calling, “John Diggle, you’re a lifesaver!” It earns her a chuckle as she makes her way up the stairs.

For not the first time, she’s grateful for the side entrance that leads in through the office section the same way the lair exit does. Because of it, no one thinks twice when she walks in through the offices instead of the main entrance—something that makes it easier for Team Arrow to move around the club without causing any suspicion.

When she walks into the open space, she immediately searches for the three she already knows to be there. She focuses on Oliver first, as always, mildly concerned when she finds him in front of the laptop at the far end of the bar. Tommy and Laurel seem to be doing something inventory-related between bouts of flirting, Laurel with a clipboard and pen in hand. Somewhere in the background, she can hear the local news on the flatscreen TV, her focus is instead on fixing Tommy’s problem so she can tell Oliver about the information on Falk.

Dropping her purse and coat on the bar, she walks over to Oliver, but calls to Tommy, “Seriously, Merlyn, you turned _Oliver_ loose with the computer I set up for your security cameras?” Oliver rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and a smile, prepared for the barrage about to come. “This is why you’re having trouble—he has more computer problems than _I_ do. Which is saying something because I work in IT and rarely handle anything _but_ computer problems.”

“Is that your preliminary diagnosis?” he answers with a grin as he and Laurel both walk toward her. “Ollie screwed it all up? Because, you know, I’m no expert, but that doesn’t sound like a very scientific explanation.”

Felicity pulls Oliver’s hands off the keyboard, waving her hands in a dismissive gesture that he takes surprisingly well. “I was just examining this month’s figures to see how we were doing,” he answers with a glance that trails downward in a way that suggests that financial figures aren’t the only ones he’s looking at. “Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t spend my days sabotaging computers.”

“No one said you did it intentionally,” Laurel answers dryly. Then to Felicity, she adds in a teasing tone, “I bet you wish you’d never met Tommy—it seems like he’s always asking for free computer repairs. And I know the last thing I want to do when I get home from work is to look at a case file—I bet you feel the same way about computers.”

“For the record,” Tommy steps in before Felicity can answer, “I _offered_ to pay her, and I thought she was going to throw something at me for suggesting it.” Then he turns the tables in a way that only a best friend can manage. “And I didn’t notice Ollie pulling out his wallet, either.”

“That’s because I expect other things from Oliver,” Felicity answers, and then her face burns when she notices Oliver’s eyes darken at the accidental innuendo. “Food, I mean,” she blurts. “Not anything else. We made use of the barter system—computer repairs in exchange for a meal.”

Tommy smiles knowingly, in a way that makes her expect a witty remark, but the news report on the TV catches her attention instead. “The kidnapper wreaking havoc on Starling City seems to have struck again,” the newscaster says, and Felicity immediately stops what she’s doing to turn to it. “The footage we’re about to see is live and broadcasting from his website, so viewers are warned.”

When it flashes to the footage, Felicity freezes immediately in something akin to horror, the face surprisingly familiar in a way that makes her stomach plummet. For once, Roy actually looks scared—though angry, too, judging by the way he pulls at the restraints on his wrists. Oliver catches her elbow in support, and then his arm immediately wraps around her waist. “Hey, he’s going to be all right,” Oliver whispers to her quietly and discretely. “I promise.” She nods once because it’s all she seems to be capable of, and then she realizes he’s right. They’ve figured it out now, and she can direct Oliver to wherever the Savior is transmitting from. Last time they were working blind, but this is going to be different.

Felicity has no doubt that Roy Harper will end up being the victim Falk will regret taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist (haven't had one of these in a while):
> 
> “Try” - P!nk  
> "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) [Steve Angello Bootleg]" - Eurythmics (for the club scene)  
> "Stay" - Mayday Parade  
> "Sing" - My Chemical Romance  
> "Oh! Darling" - The Beatles  
> “Drag Me to the Grave” - Black Veil Brides


	40. Recovery of Deleted Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation: Save Oliver's Future Brother-in-Law begins. Or Operation: Save Our Future Arsenal. They probably don't call it that, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/7zlVFOKhVO2Qugd9Z9dqCv).
> 
> And here’s the chapter you’ve probably been waiting for since the last one. I’m really excited about the way it turned out—I actually wrote it in two days, so that tells you how easy it was to put together. ;) I hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks in advance for your lovely comments and reviews, but also thank you for just taking the time to read it! :)

Felicity can’t do much more than watch as the footage on television continues, the camera focused on Roy’s face. She even forgets Oliver’s arm snaking around her waist in a way that might not be entirely appropriate for friends, pulling her against him in support. She knows she should excuse herself and make a run straight down for the lair to get everything ready, but for right now, she needs to see what’s happening.

“Who’s that?” she faintly hears Laurel ask in the background, but she doesn’t hear Tommy’s answer over the sound of Falk’s voice through the television’s speakers.

“Meet Roy Harper,” Falk says in a synthesized voice. It’s not unlike the one Oliver uses as the Arrow, but, for some reason, this one sends a chill down her spine. Maybe it’s because she knows Oliver wouldn’t do this—to Roy or anyone else. Killing to stay alive is one thing, but execution and exhibitionism are something cruel and entirely out of his repertoire. “He has arrests for larceny, robbery, and aggravated assault.” She can feel Oliver’s eyes land on her, waiting for her to deny it, but she doesn’t because she knows it’s true. “And yet he’s out on the street—another gangster in the Glades running free.”

A thought suddenly occurs to Felicity, and it springs her into action as it leaves her mouth in a single word: “Thea.” It takes a moment longer for it to dawn on Oliver, but by then she already has her phone in hand, flipping through her contacts until she finds it. Every moment between rings feels like hours, and the call itself an eternity.

Just when she’s about to panic and demand Oliver get down to the lair and hood up, Laurel or no Laurel, she hears the distinct sound of a phone ringing and heels across Verdant’s floor. As soon as she sees the curly brown hair, Felicity says to Tommy with a hand toward the TV, “Turn that off.” The last thing Thea needs is to see what she already knows about displayed across the TV, and Felicity isn’t going to subject her to that kind of torture.

Felicity notices the long streaks of black mascara down Thea’s cheeks just before she launches herself into her brother’s arms. “I didn’t know where else to go,” Thea starts in a watery voice, words tumbling over one another frantically. “I went to see Roy—we had a fight and I wouldn’t let it go—and then some guy just came out of nowhere and attacked us!” Her voice breaks once toward the end. “I don’t know what to do, Ollie—the cops won’t get to him in time.”

Felicity watches Oliver whisper something to her—probably the same promise he made earlier—and then Tommy gently pries Thea away, wrapping his arms around her. “Come on,” he says gently, with a loaded look at Oliver, “let me take you home—you can watch the news from there.” Then he turns back to Laurel. “I could use your help,” he mouths to her, and Felicity knows it’s a ploy to get everyone away so that Team Arrow can move into action.

Laurel immediately takes over, pulling Thea toward her. “We’ll let Tommy finish up here,” she states gently, “and we’ll stay with you.” Then she starts leading Thea back toward the front entrance with comforting words.

When she’s suitably out of earshot, Oliver starts, “Tommy—”

Tommy is already waving a hand. “Thea is practically my sister, too,” he answers the thought, even though he doesn’t give the opportunity to say it. “And even if she wasn’t, that’s what this team is about, right?” he asks carefully. “You pick up the slack when you need to—do whatever it takes to make sure that the people of this city don’t have to worry about guys like him.” He swallows hard, nodding a few times. “I didn’t get it before, but now I do. But you can’t be with Thea _and_ save Roy.” He turns back toward Felicity, letting his hand fall on her upper arm. “And you _will_ save him.” With that, he turns and follows Laurel and Thea out.

Felicity nods once, trying to get over the initial shock and focus on the facts. Falk has another victim, but Felicity knows how to fix this. She immediately starts toward the basement, Oliver on her heels as she states a little loudly, “Digg helped me solve the puzzle—Falk is working out of the old subway system that was shut down about twenty-five years ago.” She turns around, continuing to walk backward as she points at him. “I gave you the right locations, but he was underground.” It’s said more for her benefit than his—a reminder that Carnahan’s death is _not_ her fault.

“No one doubted you,” Oliver answers, unlocking the basement entrance with the keycode, reaching around her to do so. She realizes that he means it; he didn’t doubt the location she gave him even after the first one failed. It sends and odd jolt of emotion through her.

They both take the staircase down into the lair, Felicity going to her computers while Oliver grabs his suit and bow. “Felicity, you’re with us,” he states tersely, clearly kicked into Arrow-mode already. “I want you nearby.” She can read the translation: _I don’t want you to sit here and wonder what’s happening out there_.

“I take it you’ve seen the news?” Diggle asks her after Oliver ducks into the bathroom. Digg is already grabbing guns from the toolbox in the corner, preparing to charge in after Oliver. “I thought I’d have to come up to get you two.”

Felicity doesn’t look up from her computer. “Roy is my friend, John,” she answers quietly. “Falk isn’t a savior—he’s an executioner, and he has my friend.” A bubble of near-hysterical laughter leaves her. “I just talked to him last night after everything happened—he made some smart-ass comment about me leaving a tip because I was bugging him at work.”

Diggle places a hand on her shoulder, a frown on his face and concern in his eyes as he says to her slowly, “No one would blame you for sitting this one out if it hits too close to home, Felicity.”

“ _I_ would blame me,” she answers immediately, transferring all of her information from the desktop computer to Oliver’s laptop—the one she built for him. “I can’t just sit here and wait for this to play out. There’s a reason I joined this team, and it’s because I don’t want to sit on the sidelines anymore. I want to do _something_.”

He nods once. “Then you should come,” he answers firmly. With a smirk, he adds, “And you should remind Falk that the only vigilante in this city wears a green hood. And that he has a tech genius standing right behind him.”

Felicity stops long enough to offer him a grateful smile, intending to say more when Oliver steps out of the bathroom. “Ready?” he asks them, already standing near the outside exit. Felicity nods once before closing the laptop, gathering it under her arm. When she catches up to him, he adds, “I thought Roy might need a familiar face when this is over.” As they head up the stairs, he turns to ask her, “Where is Falk now?”

“He’ll be at the Spring Street stop in fifteen minutes,” she answers following him and Diggle up the stairs. It takes her a moment to register the rest of what he’s saying about Roy. “You wouldn’t care if he knew that I worked with you?”

Oliver chuckles, an action that makes her head turn because it seems aimed at what he says afterward: “I’m not exactly concerned that he’ll call the police.” It takes her a moment to realize that it’s a joke, and it startles her into a smile. She savors the rare moments of humor because they’re always few and far between. Then he sobers ever so slightly. “You could have told me he had a criminal record,” he adds gently, not reproach but fact. “Tommy does, too. So do I.” But she hears what he doesn’t say: _I’m in no position to judge_.

They step out into the night air for a brief moment before loading up into the back of the van, Diggle taking the wheel. Felicity situates the laptop next to her, Oliver sitting across from her. She waves a hand as she answers absently, “Yeah, but Roy has a _real_ arrest record. We’re talking armed robbery, not peeing on a cop.”

The laptop’s screen is the only source of light in the van and her vision is limited because of that, but she can see Oliver’s eyes lock onto her in some mixture of surprise and… something else she doesn’t quite recognize. It takes her a moment to decide that it might be embarrassment. “I told you before—if it’s on the Internet, I can find it.”

He doesn’t have time to ask because Diggle pulls into a nearly-hidden alleyway practically invisible from the road. “If we’re going to save this kid, we need to move now,” Diggle reminds them, and Oliver rises to his feet, pulling the mask and hood into place.

“Wait!” Felicity calls, catching his arm. Then she makes sure the synthesizer is clipped to his jacket and presses the button to turn his comm on. “This stays on at all costs,” she commands him, frustrated that she won’t have eyes on him. It’s the worst part—the sitting in the van and not knowing. “And if you don’t answer me or Digg, we’re going in after you.”

He doesn’t answer her with words, only kisses her before leaving. She immediately turns to the laptop, pulling up the local news and Falk’s website side-by-side, turning the volume off on the latter. Roy still seems to be alive—thank God—with Falk still delivering his rambling speech about delivering salvation to the Glades. Her attention flickers back and forth between it and the comms, Oliver and Diggle coordinating movement on the subway—Digg in the shadows and Oliver out in the spotlight.

Finally, Falk says something relevant that makes Felicity’s chest tighten: “I’ll give you ten minutes to state your case, Roy. Tell us, why should you get to live?”

Roy stares into the camera, the anger on his face fading after a moment. “I shouldn’t,” he answers, and Felicity feels her stomach drop. “I’ve never killed anyone and I’m not part of a gang, but I’m everything else you say I am. I’m guilty of all of those crimes on my record.” He looks away from the camera, up to where Felicity assumes Falk is standing. “But you grew up in the Glades—you know what it’s like. You either get out early, or you stay around long enough for them to turn you into a criminal.”

He studies Falk a moment. “You say that they didn’t turn you into a criminal, but they did. Those guys who killed your wife? When you started killing people in revenge for her, they destroyed you, too.” Even though his wrists are duct-taped to a set of bars, he throws his hands out in some semblance of a shrug. “But if killing me makes you feel better, fine. I’m a waste of life—no one’s gonna miss me for too long. So just kill me and get it over with.”

“Roy,” Felicity growls at the video feed, “reverse psychology doesn’t work on gun-toting lone-wolf types.” She’s sorely tempted to charge in after Oliver just to yell at Roy for his stupidity. She would miss him—and so would Thea. He knows that, and she understands what he’s doing, even if she doesn’t like it; he thinks there’s no way out of this situation, so he’s not going to prolong his suffering.

“Then we seem to agree on something,” Falk answers. “This world would be better off without you in it.” Felicity closes her eyes, prepared to hear the gunshot, but all the time begging Oliver to make his move.

The sound that comes is a crash, and Felicity watches the camera swing off its stand and drop onto the ground, casting a nice shot of everyone’s feet as the newscaster informs everyone that picture isn’t good but that they still have audio. “I can’t see you, Oliver,” she informs him, “but we can hear you on local news. Be careful what you say.”

“Let the kid go,” Oliver demands in his deep, growly Arrow voice, and Felicity is seriously impressed that Falk isn’t peeing his pants and surrendering. She’s not afraid of him—he spent months flirting with her under that synthesizer—but it’s still impressively dark and powerful. “Joseph, if you kill Roy now, he’ll never have the opportunity to change. You can give him a second chance.”

Falk’s voice is clear when he speaks this time; his synthesizer must have been damaged in Oliver’s entrance. “Emma never got her second chance,” he retorts. “They killed her because they could—for no other reason. And you have no idea how lonely it is without her.” His voice breaks before it strengthens again. “Tell me why I shouldn’t do the same to him. He seems willing to die. Tell us why he shouldn’t.”

“I understand being alone,” Oliver answers quietly, ignoring the demand. It makes Felicity bite her lip because she knows he’s talking about the island. “And I understand grief. I’ve lost people important to me, too, Joseph—I know what it’s like to watch them die, to be responsible for their deaths.” He pauses a moment, as if bracing himself for what comes next. “And I know what it’s like to love. I have someone important in my life, and if she was taken from me, I would want justice for her, too.” Some sort of emotion makes Felicity’s throat tighten—one that she couldn’t put a name to if she tried. “But I wouldn’t kill for her. She would be horrified if I committed murder in her name.” Quietly, he finishes with, “And I think Emma wouldn’t want you to, either. Especially not when the person you intend to kill is only a teenager, when you don’t understand what murder does to you. Your grief doesn’t give you the right to kill him in cold blood.”

Unsurprisingly, Falk takes exception to it. “You’ve killed for this city!” he yells. “So have I! I won’t lose sleep over this… gangbanger’s death—just like you don’t care about the people you killed. What’s the difference between you and me?”

“We are _not_ the same!” Oliver yells adamantly, and Felicity jumps at the dangerous edge to his tone. She’s seen Oliver in all sorts of situations, but she’s never heard him raise his voice before. "I know how many men I've killed," he admits suddenly. "I don't know all of their names, but I remember their faces. Not because I want to remember them, but because I can't forget. I know they had people who cared about them. I can tell you which ones deserved it—and the ones who didn't. And I deserve to live with that because I'm the reason they're dead." Felicity hears the distinct sound of the bow in her calm—drawing it or slowly releasing it, she doesn’t know. "You deserve to live with that, too."

"I'll go to jail for what I've done," Falk answers, "and I accept that. Or you can kill me—it doesn't matter now. But I'm going to finish my mission first."

A gunshot pierces both sets of audio, followed by Roy's scream. Felicity tenses, then realizes that screaming in this case is good—if Falk had punctured a lung or delivered a fatal shot, he wouldn't be _able_ to scream. His cry of pain mingles with another, and suddenly the Savior’s face appears in front of the camera, contorted in pain. He rolls away from the camera slightly, clutching his hand in a way that shows the tip of the arrow sticking through it.

"What's going on, Oliver?" she asks. "You have to be my eyes—all I can see is an arrow through Falk's hand. Is Roy okay? Are you hurt? Where's the gun Falk used? Do you have it? Because you shouldn't just leave it laying there by him. That's—"

"I'm outside the car, Felicity," Diggle answers calmly for Oliver, "but from what I can see, he's fine. Falk's gun was tossed out the window in the fight. Roy was shot through the right shoulder—looks like it could have hit bone. It probably did, based on the way he was screaming. But it's minor—you and me have patched up worse."

She takes a moment to take a deep breath of relief before realizing the camera is still on. "Oliver, get the camera," she calls into her headset. "You don't want it filming you and Diggle when you leave." She knows they'll try to get Falk to a hospital or the police station, and she doesn't want the camera accidentally catching Oliver or Diggle on live television. Computer images can be enhanced for better detail, and the last thing they need is for facial recognition to get the two of them into trouble.

"I'm a little busy right now, Oracle," he answers shortly, and she hears it picked up on both sets of audio. She's about to ask what he means when he continues, "I'm not going to hurt you, Roy. But if you want to stay here all night, feel free to keep struggling." A rush of static goes through the line—probably a deep, long-suffering sigh. "He's unconscious—probably the shock and the blood loss."

"Digg, you're a sensible person— _you_ shut off the camera," she tries. "The lens is pointed at Falk, so if you stay behind it, you'll be fine. I figure you two don't want your pictures plastered all over the ten o'clock news." After a long moment, the picture goes off, and Felicity sighs in relief before closing the laptop when both feeds go dark. "And we're shut down."

"Falk is out cold," Diggle informs her. "We're about to head up with both of them." Something between a laugh and a chuckle follows. "I guess that means mission complete, Felicity."

A giddy laugh escapes her. "You have no idea how good it is to hear that all of my boys are okay," she sighs. "When that gun went off, I wasn't so sure." Then she winces as she realizes she actually said _my boys_ aloud. "Not that you three belong to me or anything." She doesn't expect a response to her babbling; in fact, she hopes they'll ignore her.

She's pleasantly surprised when Oliver's response breaks through the silence: "If I belong to anyone, it's you." It makes her breath catch because it’s a declaration and a promise all at once—one she never expected from him.

“We still have two unconscious men to haul off a subway,” Digg reminds them. Then with a smile in his voice, he adds, “You two can get your flirt on when we get back to the van.”

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance sighs as he stares at his computer screen, going through the video of the Vigilante’s latest appearance a second time. He knows there isn’t anything visually after the Vigilante appears—he conveniently knocked over the camera—but the audio there is… enlightening, to say the least.

The first time, there had been a flurry of motion through the police station to track the kid and the killer down, but now he’s seeing it through different eyes, listening to the Vigilante’s speech a second time. If nothing else, it gives him a few more suspicions and facts to write down in the case file—every word reveals something new about the man that could be the Vigilante. The Vigilante has probably spent time in isolation of some sort. He’s watched people he cared about die, blames himself for their deaths.

Then he mentions the girl. He doesn’t say they’re together, but that she’s important—a very clear distinction in Lance’s mind. The words the Vigilante said to him come rushing back: _She’s too smart to get involved any further with me_. Then during the phone call after the Vigilante had stopped the Dodger, he had been particularly protective of the girl—protective in a way that, coupled with his previous words, suggests he has a soft spot for her. Maybe the feelings are one-sided, maybe they’re platonic—Lance doesn’t know. But either way, he’d bet his entire pension that the Vigilante is talking about Felicity Smoak.

And then it was after the killer compared the two that it _really_ earned a rise out of the Vigilante. Lance has to admit that the guy laid down one hell of a speech—one that makes Lance wonder a bit. He’d thought the Vigilante was some sort of sociopath, but that’s one theory he’s marked off the list since listening to him speak—it was too sincere to be a lie. His lack of hesitance to kill in the first place and the way he spoke tonight makes Lance underline his previous theory about the Vigilante being ex-military. He has less information and more speculation than ever, but Lance is starting to understand why accusing Oliver Queen was a mistake.

The last note is one he nearly misses making, barely catching it at the last minute: the Vigilante speaks to someone he calls Oracle. It’s the same name he used the night he took down Vanch, the one that went with a whole lot of technical support. That means Felicity was there—or at least in communication. He’s honestly not too surprised about that; he’s seen her file, and she and Roy Harper grew up in the same foster home. No doubt that this one was personal for her.

Lance is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear the cell phone ring the first time. He nearly picks up the wrong one, but then he realizes that it’s the phone the Vigilante gave him, the one that usually signals some sort of trouble. Sighing, he answers it, anyway. “Saw your stunt on the news tonight,” he answers, not bothering with a greeting. “I don’t know who your PR man is, but they’re doing one hell of a job.”

“Good evening, Detective,” the unnatural voice on the other end answers, the same way he always does, ignoring Lance’s previous statement. “Would you like to make an arrest tonight?”

“Why, you offering to give yourself up?” Lance retorts dryly.

He doesn’t know what he expects, but it sure as hell isn’t to hear the Vigilante chuckle under that voice-masking device. “Not tonight,” he answers. “But I _am_ offering to give you the Savior, also known as Joseph Falk. He’s responsible for the deaths of John Nickel and ADA Gavin Carnahan, as well as the attempted murder of Roy Harper tonight. I’m sure your department is trying to arrest the man who killed one of their own.”

Damn right they are. It’s all Lance has heard about since it happened—they nearly took him off the Vigilante case over it. But there’s a more important question brewing. “He’s still alive?” Lance hears himself ask, surprise coloring his tone.

“After Falk’s wife was murdered,” the Vigilante answers, “he only cared about revenge against the the people who wouldn’t do what they should have. He wanted to die after he was finished. It’s a far worse punishment to let him live with it.” Lance thinks he might be speaking from experience, especially after that speech tonight. “He’ll need medical assistance, but he’ll live.”

Lance picks up a pen, preparing to write down another address. “Seventy-Eighth and Oak again, or do you have a different parking garage in mind?” he asks dryly, expecting another no-nonsense answer in return.

“How about the alleyway behind the precinct?” the Vigilante answers. It takes Lance a moment, but he realizes what’s being said—their most wanted criminal is less than five hundred feet away. If Lance wasn’t so angry about it, he’d be impressed by the particularly bold move. “I’m only here for the next two minutes. After that, Falk will be here, but the evidence I have against him will leave with me.” With that, he ends the call.

Lance rises from his desk, deciding to put aside his feelings on the Vigilante just this once to put the guy who killed an assistant DA behind bars. If he told anyone about the Vigilante’s presence outside, he’d have to explain why, and working with the Robin Hood wannabe had gotten him into more than enough trouble the last time. So he’ll take the win, just this once.

It’s a short walk to the alleyway exit, and, sure as the world, the Arrow is leaning against the wall with a man in zip-cuffs sitting next to him. Based on the way he’s slumped there, Lance thinks he’s probably unconscious. Lance expects him to gloat or something, but instead he steps away from the wall, holding out what looks like a flash drive. “I’m told that this will seal the case against Falk,” the Arrow states.

Lance hesitates before taking it from him, waiting for some sort of attack when the opportunity is there. It doesn’t come, and Lance decides that maybe—God forbid he even thinks it—Felicity Smoak was right about the Arrow. He holds up the drive. “Tell Felicity thank you for this. Or Oracle, if that’s what she’s calling herself now.”

“Oracle,” he answers slowly, as though he’s trying to keep from incriminating her, “was going to send it to you if you didn’t show up. We have particular interest in seeing Falk serve time for those murders.” Lance scoffs because he saw that coming a mile away—Roy Harper’s involvement assured that. “Thank you, Detective,” he says, and then he turns, starting to walk out of the alley.

“I let this one go for the guy who killed a DA, but the next time I see you, it’s going to end with you in a cell,” Lance calls after him. It’s important that the Arrow know he’s choosing the lesser of two evils this time and that it’s not likely to happen again. “Don’t think this changes anything.”

He doesn’t even miss a step, calling over his shoulder, “Until next time, then, Detective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> “We All Fall Down” - Aerosmith  
> “Edge of the World” - Within Temptation  
> “Outlines” - All Time Low  
> “Resurrect the Sun” - Black Veil Brides  
> “Whole World is Watching” - Within Temptation feat. Dave Pirner  
> “The Reckless and the Brave” - All Time Low


	41. Software Patching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy gets a bullet pulled out of him, but other than that and the whole almost-killed-by-a-serial-killer thing, he's had a pretty tremendous day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/0uAQQPxzxHi2z1ZJ79qeF1).
> 
> First of all, this chapter was just too much fun. I really need to stop having this kind of fun with my characters, but Roy is just a good time. We might see more of his perspective coming up in this fic (or in future fics) just because he turned out to be more fun than expected. ;) I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews/comments are awesome, if you have the time to spare, but if not, thanks for reading!

Roy Harper awakens in a jolt, startled and uncertain of his surroundings. The last thing he remembers is clear in his mind: some crazy dude with an axe to grind tried to make an example of him. Then the Vigilante had charged in to save the day with an impressive speech and an arrow that had sailed right through Señor Psychopath's arm.

It's only then that he remembers the bullet, and he immediately sits upright in a panic.

Or tries to, but two hands press against his chest, holding him down. ''And just where do you think _you're_ going?" a sharp female voice asks of him. It takes him a long moment to recognize it as Felicity’s, and his eyes open immediately when he does.

Roy expects to find himself staring at the ceiling of a hospital room, but instead finds himself faced with the dark interior of a panel van. Again, he tries to sit up, but she pushes him back down. “Take it easy—you’ve had a rough day,” she states, with an edge of concern to her voice. “I’ll help you sit up, but only if you do it slowly. You’re still seeping a little, and I don’t want you bleeding out in the van. It's horrible to get bloodstains out of this carpeting.”

He takes it for the joke it’s meant to be, chuckling a little before he finds that the action makes him hurt. Then he feels a hand on his left arm, gently urging him upward. Her face appears in his vision, her eyebrows knitted together slightly in concern.

Finally upright, he leans against the seat, examining his surroundings again. “Where the hell am I?” he asks her. It makes her smile, and for the first time he realizes that there’s a Bluetooth headset over her ear. Her coat is draped across the bench seating on the other side of the van, draped over some sort of laptop. Wherever it is, she’s comfortable here. That counts for something—Felicity doesn’t strike him as the kind of person who gets accustomed to things quickly. “I remember getting shot and the Vigilante trying to untie me, but after that…” He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“You passed out. He carried you off the subway and brought you here,” she answers, and Roy gets the sneaking suspicion that she acts as some sort of informant for the Vigilante. “You were bleeding and we stopped it mostly, but we can’t do much more than that if you want to go to a hospital—the police will be all over that, and he can’t be involved. But that doesn’t do a damn thing for the nine-millimeter still in your shoulder.” She studies Roy in a way that makes him a little uncomfortable, as though she can see right through the hardened exterior. “But I seem to remember that you don’t like hospitals. We can fix you up here, too, but it will probably hurt a whole lot more.”

She remembers correctly. “If you can do it here,” Roy insists, “do it.” The last thing he wants is to have random people poking needles into him again—too many trips to the hospital as a kid still make him nervous.

Felicity nods once before standing, pulling over a rolling tray of looks like medical supplies before waving to an empty space in the corner. Roy studies it for a moment in confusion, but he can’t do much more than stare when the Vigilante seems to appear out of nothing but darkness.

With the Savior and nearly being killed, Roy didn’t get a good look at the man who half of Starling City fears, but now he does. The van is dark and most of his face is shadowed by the hood or hidden under the mask, but the Vigilante looks like he stepped right out of an urban legend. It’s almost surreal, as though he’s not human, but something else entirely.

Ignoring Roy’s wide-eyed staring, the Vigilante walks over to Felicity, putting a hand on her shoulder to get her attention. Surprisingly, she doesn’t flinch or jump at the contact, almost ignoring him. “I can take care of this, Felicity,” the he says to her in a deep, nearly robotic voice, using some sort of device to alter the sound.

Sitting down next to Roy with the cart, she answers, “No, you don’t.” Roy’s eyebrows shoot up higher than before, if it’s even possible. “I’ve seen you patch up your own wounds before, and I’m not subjecting Roy to that sort of trauma. We’re trying to help him, not torture him.”

Roy thinks he might be hallucinating when the Vigilante’s mouth turns up slightly for a brief moment. His hand catches Felicity’s arm for a moment. “I can talk you through it,” he offers slowly, “if you need me to.” Something in his expression and posture makes Roy think that he doesn’t particularly like the idea of Felicity getting her hands dirty.

Felicity takes it well, her arm pulling out of his grip so that she can place her hand over his shoulder and a soft smile lighting her face. “I remember,” comes the assurance, and then she points to the seating on the other side of the van. “You can sit over there and try not to look menacing—I think you’re scaring him.” With some sort of cough-like sound, the Vigilante does as she asks, taking the order surprisingly well for a guy who’s known for putting arrows in people.

She leans over next to Roy, pulling back his already open shirt, exposing piece of gauze over the top of the wound. Her eyes flick up to his for a moment, then back down as the beginning of a smile playing at her lips. “You’re staring,” she mutters to him absently, peeling back the gauze with careful fingers. “He doesn’t bite, you know.” Louder she continues, “At least, not that I’m aware of. You haven’t bitten anyone recently, have you?” The tone in her voice turns mischievous, as though inviting the Vigilante to join in with her good humor—a ridiculous thought, at best.

Roy watches, a little mystified, as the corners of the Vigilante’s mouth tick upward for a second. “I’m not Mike Tyson,” he answers dryly, following another cough that Roy realizes is a chuckle. “I put the fear of God into people, but I don’t bite them.” It’s almost surreal to hear the sarcastic humor coming out of the man that Starling City has learned to fear over the past few months, and Roy has to blink twice to make sure he isn’t imagining this whole thing

Felicity winks at Roy. “See? You have nothing to worry about,” she assures him, and the banter makes him miss the needle until he feels the liquid being released next to the wound. He tries to look down at it, but Felicity turns his jaw upward, away from the injection site. “No you don’t. I remember the thing you have with needles. It’s just lidocaine—a local anesthetic.”

The needle comes out before she releases him, and he turns his attention to her now, curiosity getting the better of him. “You work for the Vigilante?” he asks her finally, and then he can’t help but chuckle because this is _exactly_ the Felicity Smoak he remembers from foster care. She may be blonde and a self-described corporate lapdog now, but he remembers her defiance and tendency to favor fairness over Mrs. N’s rules. “Of course you do.”

“With,” the synthesized voice corrects immediately, making Roy jump a little. “Felicity works _with_ me. She’s not my subordinate—she’s my partner.” It surprises him a little how quick the Vigilante is to defend her.

What surprises him even more is when Felicity responds, “He’s the Arrow, not the Vigilante—only the newspapers call him that.” Roy notes that both take exception with the statement for the other. “Remember when I told you I’m a hacker in a past life?” she asks suddenly. “I just neglected to mention it wasn’t a _past_ life.” Roy gapes at her. “So, yes, I work with the Arrow. And, on nights like these, I’m glad for it—God only knows where you’d be if I didn’t.”

Roy knows _exactly_ where he’d be, and he supposes Felicity does, too: lying dead wherever the Savior took his victims. It’s something he doesn’t want to think about, and instead he latches onto a different thought. “You asked him to save me?” he asks, more surprised by this revelation than the last. He grew up forgotten and ignored, so the idea of anyone caring that much hits him hard with some sort of emotion he tries to push down.

“I didn’t have to,” Felicity answers cryptically, turning her attention to the medical cart, looking through the items with a frown. “And I don’t have a scalpel to make the incision for the forceps. Awesome.” With a sigh, she rummages through the shelves a little longer.

The Arrow rises to his feet immediately. “I’ll go get one,” he offers, clearly moving to do so.

She catches his forearm before he can leave. “No,” she answers firmly, rising to her feet to stand in front of him. “You’ve already been out in the open too much tonight—dropping that criminal off at the precinct and then bringing up the medical supplies. I can use your knife—I have alcohol here.” In an impressive display of bravery, she pulls the knife out of the pocket in the front of the Arrow’s jacket, as though it’s a common occurrence. Roy would think it was, except she seems to blush a little afterward.

She turns away from the Arrow, but he catches her arm. He turns her to face him, the two of them standing close enough to set off some alarm bells in Roy’s head. He doesn’t know what he expects to happen next, but it’s certainly not for the Arrow to reply state quietly, “You’ll need a lighter.”

Roy’s no expert, but that doesn’t sound good.

Felicity goes over to her purse, rummaging through it for what looks like a very expensive cigarette lighter, and Roy isn’t the only one who’s confused by it. After all, Felicity doesn’t smoke. “Roy and I helped Thea Queen quit smoking,” she answers the unspoken question as she moves to sit down again. “He liberated her cigarettes, and I took her lighter.”

Roy swallows when she releases the switchblade, thinking she might have done that a time or two before. “You wanna tell me what you’re going to do with a lighter, a knife, and some alcohol?” he asks, maybe a little nervously.

As she answers, she pours the bottle of alcohol into a tray. “I need to make an incision to remove the bullet. In a hospital, they would do it with a scalpel, but _someone_ ”—she aims the accusation at the Arrow—“forgot the scalpel when they brought the medical equipment out.” She dips her fingers in the alcohol before sending a glare toward the Arrow, who suddenly doesn’t seem so scary. “You better hope this doesn’t screw up my nail polish—I just did this yesterday.” She points an index finger with a purple nail at him before wiping the blade down with the alcohol, careful not to let it touch the handle.

“So, because of this oversight,” Felicity continues, her voice turning cheerful and clinical again, “we’re going to do this a little differently. But, since I don’t want to stick a random knife in you that’s been used to cut shafts off arrows and duct tape off of your wrists, I’m sterilizing it first.” She pulls it out of the alcohol then, holding it up for a few moments before flicking open the lighter and setting fire to the blade. It generates a small flame that fizzles out quickly. “And we’re sterile.”

Roy studies her for a moment. “Did they teach you that at MIT, Blondie?” he asks dryly, then realizes that maybe he shouldn’t be a smart ass to the person about to cut into him with a knife.

Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to mind, laughing lightly. He looks away when she starts cutting because he does _not_ want to see this. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to feel it, either. “I like to think of it as on-the-job training,” Felicity answers. “It’s not exactly a skill I can put on my résumé, but you never know when a crash course in field medicine can come in handy.” She holds up the blood-covered bullet in triumph before dropping it into the alcohol tray and wiping off the blade of the knife, folding the blade in and placing it on the cart. “It’s a good thing I have a vested interest in keeping the Arrow alive, or you probably would have been subjected to his mercy.” She frowns. “I could have probably pulled that thing out with a jackhammer without it being as painful as his work looks.”

The Arrow seems to find that funny, offering a cough-like laugh again. “Pain and I came to an understanding a long time ago,” he answers, some of the humor fading in a cryptic humor. It makes Roy think that taking down bad guys in Starling isn't his first rodeo. “But I can be gentle when I need to be.” His tone changes, turning into something more subtle and loaded that Roy can’t quite define.

Apparently he isn’t the only one to notice; Felicity drops the suture package in her hands, coloring slightly before acting like that _wasn’t_ a bizarre turn of events. It takes Roy a moment to believe what his own mind is telling him, but, yeah, that was _definitely_ flirting. Combined with the intense looks and touches, he can put together the bigger picture pretty well.

“Figures,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Then he looks down at Felicity, watching her concentrate on pushing the suture through the wound. “You two are really bad at trying to hide your relationship,” he states, and then he winces when the suture needle slips. “I felt that one.”

While Felicity mutters an apology, the Arrow is the one to answer him; it’s unexpected because Felicity has been the most talkative one all night. “This van is part of our operation,” he offers in explanation. “We don’t have to hide here.”

Roy doesn’t quite understand, but Felicity seems willing to clear things up. “Because we do this every night,” she adds as she ties off the end of the suture, “we have to lie to the people we care about _daily_. Not just because the cops would throw us in jail or because the criminals could hurt us, but because they would come after our families.” A soft laugh leaves her. “I think everyone has forgotten that the Arrow isn’t just a ghost that haunts Starling City by night. He’s a person, too—meaning he has a family.” Roy thinks about that a moment—he’s never really thought about the Arrow having parents, siblings, or possibly even children. Hell, it practically gave him an identity crisis to think that the Arrow had a girlfriend. “But at night, we don’t have to pretend.”

She quickly slips a piece of gauze over the wound, sealing it before pulling away. "And you're good to go," she assures him. "The lidocaine will wear off in a few hours and you're probably going to be sore for a while, but if it gets too bad, I can slip you a few pain pills from our supply. The stitches need out in about six weeks—you can do that yourself, or I can do it for you." She points over her shoulder at the Arrow. "And _you_ , mister, you need to get out of her before anyone misses you."

The Arrow rises to his feet but hesitates. "Are you sure?" he asks her. "There's a lot to clean up here." Roy thinks it might never be weird—he doesn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't for the Arrow to act like a normal human being when he isn't dropping bad guys on the streets.

"I've got it," she assures him, then turns to Roy. "I'll take this back to base in a few hours, but I think I know someone who's really going to enjoy seeing Roy alive after that news feed." She winks at him. "I'll take you back to Thea—I'm a sucker for happy endings."

The Arrow nods and steps forward, but Roy clears his throat, and the vigilante as Roy rises to his feet. "Look," he starts slowly, "I'll probably never see you again after this, but I'm glad I at least got the chance to say thank you. Not just for saving me, but for what you've done for the Glades, too." Surprising himself, he holds out his hand to shake. "I don't know what kind of help I'd be, but if you ever need anything, I'd be glad to return the favor sometime."

The Arrow grips Roy's extended hand in an expectedly firm, brief handshake. With what looks like the slightest hint of a smile, the Arrow answers, "You can thank me by keeping yourself safe. And if I need anything, I'll reach out to you through Felicity."

The Arrow brushes past him then, turning to the blonde in question. "Goodnight, Felicity," he says softly. In one of the damnedest things Roy Harper has ever seen in his young life, the vigilante bends down and kisses her briefly before grabbing his bow and exiting the van.

Felicity turns to Roy then, acting as though nothing has happened. "We're going to \give him a few minutes' head start, and then I'll take you back to Thea." She studies him for a moment, throwing her arms over her lap in a thoughtful expression as he sits back down. "We're going to play with the truth a little, though. I'm sorry I have to ask you to lie for me, Roy, but if you don't, I become a target."

He offers her a sardonic smile when he answers, "Lucky for you, you're one of the few people in this world I'd lie for. We stick together." That was the rule at Mrs. N's, and he's not going to break it. The mention of Thea brings to mind thoughts of other conversations, and he scoffs. "You know, Thea is gonna be pissed that you're dating the Arrow. She has it in her mind that you're going to marry Oliver Queen and be her sister-in-law or something."

Felicity chokes and doesn't answer that, instead plowing into the cover story.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Felicity starts as they both exit the car in front of the Queen mansion, “you remember the story, right?” She hates that Roy has to lie for her, but he seems more than willing to. Citing the rule of _we stick together_ as the reason for his eagerness, he reminds her that the act of doing favors goes both ways, that he’s going to help her the way she helps him.

Felicity doesn’t miss the cop car parked next to hers, and she’s seen the car’s numbers enough to know that it’s probably Detective Lance—by far the best luck she could have with the police being involved. The silver Mercedes parked in front of the house and Laurel’s black Toyota still in front of Verdant adds to the deduction: Laurel probably called her father in on this one to make Thea feel better about it.

“I’ve been lying to cops all my life, Blondie,” he answers dryly, despite the fact that his tone is off—too fluttery for Roy. She looks at him, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows nervously. This isn’t his scene, either, and she remembers how nervous she was the first time walking in here, too.

She continues talking about the story as something draw his mind away from the fact that yes, he is about to walk into the Queen mansion. “You woke up under an awning on Spring Street,” she informs him. “You were already patched up, and your cell phone was lost in the fight”—that part isn’t a lie—“so you walked to my apartment three blocks away. I knew Thea was here, so that’s where I brought you.”

He nods once as Felicity knocks on the door, then finally asks her, “So, the Arrow…” he starts, and she already knows this isn’t going to end well. “You know who he is, right? I know you can’t tell me if you do.” He holds his hands up as Felicity opens her mouth to speak. “I was just thinking that he seems like a nice guy, but if you don’t know who he is, what’s to say he doesn’t have another girlfriend hanging around somewhere? Or a wife? It would suck if you fell in love with this guy and he was just playing the field.”

Felicity allows the question because she had similar thoughts early on. “I know who he is,” she answers quietly. “I’ve seen both sides of his life.” She laughs quietly. “And trust me, he’s a pretty remarkable person when he’s _not_ under that hood, too.”

Before he can answer, Diggle opens the door, smiling at Felicity. They thought it best if Roy didn't know every face on Team Arrow, so she and Oliver sent him back prior to helping him. "Come on in, Felicity," he says, opening the door wide, then turns to Roy with a loaded smile. "Who's your friend?"

"Digg," she answers immediately, "meet Roy Harper. Roy, this is John Diggle—he's Oliver's bodyguard-slash-driver-slash-friend. We all usually call him Digg, though."

Roy seems a little too awed by the decor to speak. "This is…" he starts as he tenses up, but doesn't seem to be able to continue. His hands immediately go into the pockets of his hoodie, as if he's trying to make himself as small as possible to avoid touching anything.

"Opulence, I has it," Felicity agrees in a fake Russian accent, and he actually relaxes with a slight laugh at that. Diggle even smiles at the two of them, seeming to enjoy her antics. "It's a lot to take in. And yes, that is actually a Ming Dynasty vase. I asked Raisa—the housekeeper—the last time I was here."

Roy actually starts at the word _housekeeper_. "I better get to Thea before I break something and get kicked out," he answers dryly, but at least Felicity thinks he looks a little more relaxed now at least. It's been a long night for Roy, and she knows that this trip to the Queen mansion isn't making things any easier.

With a slight nod, Felicity practically pushes him into the foyer. He doesn’t speak, seeming to have been stunned into silence, just watching the scene unfold. Oliver holds Thea’s hand as she leans into Laurel on the sofa, and Lance sits on the sofa across from them, asking her questions. Tommy sits in the recliner facing away from them, and Moira is nowhere in sight—probably that business meeting Oliver mentioned in passing earlier.

Always acutely aware of his surroundings, Oliver is the first one to notice, smiling at the two of them. “Hey, Thea,” Felicity calls to catch her attention, then pushes Roy forward a few steps. “Something that belongs to you showed up on my doorstep—I thought you’d want it back.”

Roy offers a quiet thank-you before walking toward Thea. When he finally offers her a quiet, “Hey,” she wraps her arms around him so tight that Felicity can hear the soft _oof_ as the breath is knocked out of the poor kid. She stands back, enjoying the sight of the two of them together, thinking that they make a good pair and that Roy is probably one of the best things that could have ever happened to Thea.

Oliver walks up to her with a slight smile, surreptitiously taking her hand. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s only because nothing needs to be said. Finally, Felicity breaks the silence. “That was an interesting speech,” she states finally, covering the subject that neither of them have dared to bring up.

“I meant every word,” he answers quietly, knowing better than to let his voice carry. He shakes his head, a sardonic smile playing across his face. “I’m not a hero, Felicity, and I never will be. But I’m trying to be better.” He squeezes her hand. “ _You_ make me want to be better. Joseph Falk made me wonder what kind of person I’d be without you in my life, and I looked at the answer tonight. I didn’t want him to die because grief drove him to something like this.”

Felicity can’t stop herself from hugging him; she doesn’t care who’s watching because he clearly needs the encouragement. “Never in a million years,” she assures him, “would you be like Falk. Even if he had killed, he could have avenged his wife quietly, taken down the criminals who hurt her. Instead, he directed his rage at men who had nothing to do with her death, and he made a show of it, Oliver. He _enjoyed_ watching them die—enough so that he wanted people to know who he was and why he did it. You aren’t like that at all.”

He releases her then, a smile back on his face now. “I’ll see you later tonight,” he promises quietly, “after this has all blown over.” He doesn’t ask for permission because they both know he’s always welcome at her place—especially after bad nights out in the field. God knows the last thing she wants is to have him wallow in unearned guilt in the dark of the lair.

Knowing she has nothing more to say, she turns back toward the entrance hall, not wanting to ruin the moment between Roy and Thea. With a smile at Diggle, she's almost back to the door when she hears a very gruff voice call behind her, "Hell of a thing you two did tonight, Miss Smoak."

Felicity turns toward Lance, smiling immediately. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective," she answers, looking him straight in the eyes as the lie rolls easily off of her tongue. "I just answered my door to find a scared teenager who had just woken up after being saved by the Arrow." It surprises her; she used to have a terrible time lying, but now it’s second nature.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't buy it. "The Vigilante saved a kid, got his guy, and no one died tonight." He studies her a long moment. "That wouldn't have happened six months ago—Falk would have been killed. Instead, he's sitting in lockup after the Vigilante generously delivered him. And his partner, this Oracle, gave us enough information to put him away for a long time." His face takes on a pained look for a moment, as though he doesn’t want to say his next words, before he adds, "So whoever that girl was—the one that he talked about tonight, the one who has convinced him not to kill—she should take more pride in the way this turned out than the Arrow."

Felicity swallows hard, not quite sure how to answer. This story didn't have a happy ending, not really; two men died before Falk was stopped, and neither one of them deserved to die. One of them died on her watch, even, and there two bodies in the morgue that shouldn't be there. Lance may be praising her for it, but she certainly doesn't feel like the hero in this scenario. Maybe this is why Oliver dislikes the word so damn much—because most of the time, the so-called heroics don't feel like they're good enough to outweigh the bad.

So she turns and leaves without answering, choosing to focus on a different win of the night: Lance just called Oliver "the Arrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> “Hear the Sound” - Mayday Parade  
> "Oh, Calamity!" - All Time Low  
> "Life is Beautiful" - Sixx:A.M.  
> "Ready, Set, Go!" - Tokio Hotel  
> "Modern Love" - David Bowie


	42. Wired Networking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of flirting happens, and we manage to squeeze in a little bit of plot for the super-hardcore readers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what you guys are expecting out of this chapter, but I would bet money that it isn’t what happens here. I’ve decided to go in an interesting direction, so I just want to warn you to fasten your seatbelts for this insane little ride. ;) I’d appreciate any feedback you might have on the chapter, but thanks for reading, too! :)

Pleased to leave work early, Felicity walks into Verdant with a smile on her face and a spring in every step she takes in her panda flats. It's nice to be somewhere other than Queen Consolidated when the sun is starting to set; she's worked late every night for a week and she's tired of her cubicle, even if she usually likes it. Verdant is just… _different_ in her world.

For once, she walks in the front doors instead of the back exit, unsurprised to find Tommy on his laptop at the bar. She is surprised, however, to find him frowning at it, which she thinks might have her name written all over it. "Are you hurting innocent computers again, Merlyn?" she calls to him, and he immediately looks up with a smile as she walks up to him. "Anything I can help with?" Before he can answer, another question falls out of her mouth. "And is Oliver already downstairs?"

Tommy feigns something like mock hurt. "I can't get a word in edgewise, and you're already asking where my best friend is, Smoaky?" is his dry response. "If I were a lesser man, you could hurt my feelings. Ollie hasn't made it in yet—at least through the front entrance. He usually gives me a heads-up, though." He turns the laptop toward her. "And by all means, if you can tell me why this program isn't balancing my accounts, that would be awesome."

Pulling the laptop toward her, Felicity sits at the bar, looking at the information and trying to determine the issue. "Just give me a few minutes," she mutters to him before zeroing in on the screen, trying to determine what the hell he did to screw up the program. A few moments later, she's able to give him a triumphant fist-pump, and he studies her like she's some sort of alien life form. "Minor software glitch—but nothing I couldn't fix."

Finally, Tommy shakes his head and offers her part of a smile. "Actually, I think my inventory program sucks pretty hard, too," he admits slowly. "I hate to ask because I know it's a lot of work and that you're burning both ends of the candle, but do you think you could… _make_ one?"

Though his technology jargon is completely hopeless, she answers slowly, "It might take me a few days, but I could definitely do it." Before he can ask anything more, she pulls out her tablet, starting to type on its keyboard. "Actually, I think you just probably need a database—those are a whole lot easier to design, and I think it would be easier for you to use a familiar program instead of learning a new one. I can do it right now."

"You sure, Smoaky?" he asks her slowly. "Because I don't want to add to your already crazy workload. And I know Oliver is taking up most of your time—you're probably exhausted by the time you get to work in the morning." He winks at her, leaving no room for interpretation with what he means. "Hopefully in a good way."

"Because I don't want said boyfriend to use you for archery practice," she answers as sharply as possible, "I'm going to pretend you didn't just drop an innuendo." She mocks frowning at him over the tablet. "The only one here allowed to make innuendos is me, and mine are always accidental—and usually a lot less subtle."

A dramatic sigh leaves him. "You used to be fun, Smoak," he comments dryly, the smile taking the bite out of his sarcasm. "You've spent too much time pouting in the corner with Ollie." Something changes his expression, a fact Felicity notes over the top of her tablet screen. "We should all do something… mundane and normal together—you, Ollie, me, and Digg. Like watch a movie—my dad is pretty much never home, and we have a _killer_ home theater system at my place. Or we could just go eat Big Belly Burger in the lair. But just the four of us who are in on the secret, so none of us have to live up to any expectations."

Arms wrap around Felicity's waist from behind, pulling her into the same man she'd curled up against last night. "That sounds great," Oliver agrees, before dropping a kiss against her hair. "Provided I can talk Felicity into it."

She fakes a sigh, laying on the hesitance in her tone. "I don't know, Oliver," she answers slowly. "I'm not sure if that sounds like a good idea yet. Maybe if you tried to make a convincing argument?"

It's meant to be an innocent statement, but apparently Oliver takes it as flirty, judging by the way she can feel his smile against his ear. In a low murmur, he replies in a rough tone, "I'm sure I can think of some way to change your mind." With that statement, Felicity considers giving up her reign as the innuendo champion to Oliver, if only based on her reaction. It makes all of those horrible, clichéd romance things happen to her: her heart skips a beat, she feels a flutter in her stomach, and she offers him a very audible gasp.

"Okay, it's official," Tommy declares, "you two are actually sickening right now because you're _that_ smitten." He points toward the bathrooms jokingly. "I'm you need me, I'll be over there throwing up."

Felicity feels her face heat, but Oliver doesn't seem to have the same embarrassment issues. He slides out from behind her long enough for Felicity to watch him smirk at Tommy, and then he kisses her—sweetly, chastely, almost agonizing compared to some of the more demanding kisses they've shared in in the past.

A new voice calls into the room, "You two know I'll throw cold water on you, right?" Diggle's quiet baritone has a hint of humor to it, and Felicity pulls away from Oliver to smile at him. "I'm all for you two flirting in the van, but Tommy's right on this one—you two are a little vomit-inducing." He shrugs, clearly starting to conspire with Tommy on the subject. "I gotta admit, though, it was worse when I was trying to convince our boy to get his head out of his ass and make a move."

Tommy scoffs but stops short, and Felicity follows Oliver's gaze toward the doorway as he moves away from her, swiveling her stool in the opposite direction. Detective Lance charges up to the building like he owns it, and suddenly good humor is completely sucked from the room. Lance's visits typically serve as the harbinger for not-good, and they could use a break after the way things went with the Savior.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Lance?" Tommy asks casually, probably trying to play it cool both because of Laurel and because he's now fully aware of the Arrow's base of operations right under his feet.

Lance draws a hand over his face, looking completely exhausted. He turns to Felicity for a moment, as though confused by her presence, before turning back to Tommy. "This is an official visit," he answers, then holds up a photo of a girl who looks a little too dead for Felicity's liking. "Do any of you recognize her? Her name is Veronica Sparks."

Felicity immediately shakes her head, as does Tommy. Oliver, however, takes a more verbal stance. "I've never seen her before." Lance scowls, and Oliver picks up on that, too. "Is there a reason any of us should have?"

"Veronica Sparks was hit by a car last night," Lance answers with a frown. "It took us a while to identify her"—Felicity has a suspicion of why that is, and it makes her stomach turn once uncomfortably—"but she had a Verdant wristband and a heavy dose of Vertigo in her system."

The word makes her uncomfortable immediately; Felicity recognizes the name from the time before she had a place in the lair. More importantly, she remembers how he nearly made Oliver overdose on Vertigo, which still reminds her that he's not as superhuman as he lets on. She knows he's too mentally unstable now to perform anything of this magnitude, which means that there's a new player who is producing the drug. There's no doubt in her mind that, after Lance leaves, the Arrow is going to go pay the Count a visit.

"A lot of people come in here every night, Detective," Oliver offers in response, and Felicity thinks he's trying to focus the attention on him, away from Tommy, who doesn't need a fight with Lance. "As the general manager, Tommy takes care of our liquor shipments and our staff—not our guests. I typically spend the night in the office, sending figures to accountants and writing checks." He flashes a smile that is completely insincere. "Occasionally I come out to check on our VIP clientéle, but I would have remembered her if she was there. I can have someone send our security camera footage to your office, if you'd like."

Lance seems surprised by the offer. "You have security footage?" he asks Oliver, though his attention seems focused on Felicity. "Most clubs like their privacy." Felicity sees what he's getting at; they seem a little paranoid about security, and that makes them look like there's a reason for it. She hopes that his suspicion and her presence hasn't lead Lance to think that there might be a super-secret vigilante lair on the lower level.

"Actually," Felicity answers before either man can say anything, "I convinced Oliver to set up security measures around here because of the location. The Glades are a dangerous place." She leans back against the bar, where Oliver's arm rests behind her, and it immediately goes between her shoulder blades. "For the security of the club guests and the staff, I suggested Oliver set up cameras in the main area, the VIP lounges, and the upper level. In addition to that, they also run background checks on their employees to ensure that employees don't have any drug offenses." She crosses her arms. "If she had drugs here, she brought them in, her dealer was also a guest, or it's someone without a previous offense."

After studying her a moment, Lance asks, "Miss Smoak, could I speak to you alone for a moment?" She feels like she's been called to the principal's office, but she grudgingly rises from her chair, walking back toward the entrance with Lance, out of earshot of the others.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" Felicity asks immediately, uncertain as to where this conversation is going. It could be about the security cameras, the Arrow, Oliver, and a whole host of other things she can't think of yet.

After hesitating with an expression that looks almost pained, he asks her quietly, "This was one of the Arrow's cases." The pained look grows slightly. "We're having trouble getting anything out of the Count and we don't have any other leads. Do you think you could convince your friend to investigate this?" Felicity can feel her eyes go wide at Lance's question, and he must understand her surprise. "I'm not saying I approve of his methods," Lance warns her sharply, "but I know what these drugs did this city the first time around. The sooner we close this, the better."

Nodding once, Felicity answers, "I'll see if I can pass along the information, then." She can't say much more than that; after all, he's still a cop and she could still be arrested if she admitted anything more about the Arrow. "But I think the Arrow would be on this case whether we wanted him to or not."

Lance's gaze passes over her shoulder to where Oliver, Diggle, and Tommy are standing. "You're keeping dangerous company these days, Miss Smoak," he comments, and it's not a warning like he would have given her before. Instead, it's a simple statement of fact. "Just try to take care of yourself." It's a well-concealed display of concern under his features, and she accepts it with a small nod.

As soon as he leaves the building, she charges back toward Oliver, Tommy, and Digg. "Lance wants the Arrow on this case," she says to them, "and I think I know where to find him."

Oliver smiles slightly, though his attention is now focused on the mission. "We'll start with the Count," he decides quickly. "He might not know anything, but he's the only lead they have right now. Felicity, I need you to dig into the case file and see if there's anything the police have missed."

She removes her tablet from the counter before assuring him, "I'm already on it."

 

* * *

 

It's after dark when Roy takes the shortcut he probably shouldn't take even in the daylight, crossing through the back alleys for a shortcut to Big Belly Burger. Thea has tasked him with the job of providing food since she's at his place tonight, and he thinks he'd rather be the one moving through a shady part of the Glades at night than an heiress who has no sense of danger.

Despite his reckless travel down the alleyways, Roy really has been trying to keep away from the dangerous parts of his life as the Arrow asked him to. He locked up all of his guns from the old days, and all but one knife he carries for his own protection. (After all, he might not be looking for trouble in the Glades anymore, but sometimes trouble comes looking for him.) It's a little boring in comparison, but he no longer has to worry about cops trying to arrest him. Starting last week, Roy Harper became an honest citizen for the first time in his life.

Not that he'll admit it aloud, but it feels kind of good, actually.

A cry startles him out of his thoughts, and he notes that someone is using one of the adjoining alleyways, moving fast in a leather jacket and dark jeans. At first he mistakes her for a boy because of the dark and her short hair, but then she passes under the flickering streetlight. He's about to tell her that she took the wrong fork and that it's a dead end when three men start converging on her. No way in hell is Roy going to turn and walk away from a scene like that.

Knowing that calling the cops is futile in the Glades, Roy calls out to them, "I don't think she's interested." They turn on him immediately, and the girl takes the opportunity to slide toward the alley's mouth when the attention is pulled away from her. Whoever she is, she definitely doesn't need any kind of savior to help her—all she needs is an opportunity, and she can take care of herself. "Leave her alone," he continues, taking a step forward, making sure to keep their attention focused on him.

"What, you gonna take on three of us?" the head goon sneers, and Roy studies them for the first time. Head Goon and one of his buddies are pretty wiry, but the third man looks like he might be related to the guy who played the Hulk in those old re-runs.

The girl slides out a little further, her cell phone in hand. It looks like she's texting based on her hand movements, though he can't understand why. "If I have to," he answers, hoping to buy more time. Roy knows his limits, and there's no way he's going to take all three of them down by himself—or even with the help of the girl.

Stalling for time is over, though, because the leader of the pack throws a swing at Roy. He dodges it and shoves the guy back to focus on the other two, and the dark-haired girl clocks him over the head with a loose brick she picked up. The second one goes down without much of a fight, but Possible Steroid User punches Roy so hard in the stomach that the breath is knocked out of him. It gives the guy a chance to land a second punch in his jaw, and he immediately tastes blood.

Somehow Roy is able to stay standing, but the leader has apparently recovered and pulls a knife on him. Before Roy can move, it slashes across his cheekbone, the cut immediately stinging in the chill of the night air. He knows how the fight is going to end, and it isn't good.

"If you want a fight," a new voice calls out, soft, feminine and echoing, "how about taking on someone who can fight back?" Everyone pauses at once—except for the black-haired girl, he notes, who manages to kick the other man in a place he won't forget—focusing on the woman who stands on top of one of the dilapidated buildings, overlooking them like a hawk. Her attire is black leather from head to toe, blonde hair loosely falling over her shoulders. A black mask covers her eyes, and some silver staff rests over her shoulder.

Roy takes a moment to appreciate that this is his second vigilante in as many weeks and no one else probably has his shitty luck.

The bigger ban punches Roy in the gut again, and this time he goes down, only able to observe as the pain washes through him. The blonde practically mops the street with them, the staff flying as she whacks them with it repeatedly.

They're no match for her. Even with all three on her at once, none of them land a blow. The one that the dark-haired girl beat earlier goes down first, the blonde’s staff sweeping his feet out from under him so quickly that his head hits the ground with a crack. Knife boy takes his medicine second, with the knife going into his leg as she breaks the hand he was originally holding it in. Then, a few strokes of the staff that is taller than she is, Mini-Hulk goes down with two taps to the head and a punch to the stomach.

Some muted whispering follows the attack, and then, finally, someone's hand falls on his shoulder. "You okay?" Kickass Staff Lady asks him in her distorted voice, and Roy can't bring himself to breathe deeply, much less answer her question.

"Is he even breathing, Canary?" a soft, deeper voice calls from the distance, a little rougher than her friend. "If he's not, he should be dying of embarrassment after getting his ass handed to him like that."

"Be nice," the blonde answers. "He tried to help you. That's more than most of the people in this city." A dark note drops into her tone that would make Roy shiver under different circumstances. To her friend, she says, "I thought I told you to avoid this street at night. It's not safe here."

"It's the Glades—nowhere is safe," comes the answer, and Roy can practically hear her shrugging. "I ducked down the first alley I could find—I forgot this is a dead end now, but I'll remember it the next time."

Finally the blonde's face comes into a hazy view, her hair hanging over her shoulder. "Hey, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," he manages, trying to scramble to his feet, and the blonde offers him a gloved hand and pulls him upright. "Thanks for that." Something sticky rubs against his cheek, and he groans when he remembers the knife wound. "My girlfriend is going to be pissed."

"If I had an idiot like you for a boyfriend, I'd be pissed, too," the dark-haired girl calls out again. She crosses her arms, her entire expression geared toward confrontation, a common attitude in the Glades that he knows well. "Guess you're not all bad, though, if you're trying to play hero to random strangers."

Roy bristles, even though he knows she's just trying to get a rise out of him. "I was hoping you'd slip away while I was distracting them," he answers dryly. "And I guess _you're_ not all bad, either, if you've got a badass blonde to save you."

She studies him for a long moment before commenting to her friend begrudgingly, "Damn, I like him." She takes a few steps away from him, then she turns back to Roy with a slight nod. "Try not to get yourself in trouble again." He's about to leave for home when he hears her call out again.

"Hey, Abercrombie? Leave the hero stuff to the people who actually know how to fight next time."


	43. Registry Repair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity stitches Roy up (again) while he ponders his poor life choices. Well, he doesn't, but he should--it would save him a whole lot of trouble in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/6F9vFj9birWFy5ruWvM9U3).
> 
> Holy wow, this chapter was insane. I knew what I wanted to do with it, but getting it on paper was a chore. Sometimes it just goes like that. Anyway, I hope you enjoy watching where this one goes! :) Reviews and comments are awesome, but you’re already awesome just for being you. ;)
> 
> Also, just an early note that **there will not be an update on March 5**. I have a vet school interview that week, so that's all I'm thinking about for that. I'll remind you a little closer to time, but I just wanted to let you guys think about it. ;)

Felicity sinks down into the chair after Oliver leaves, keeping up with the route he takes to the psychiatric ward that has become the Count’s permanent address. There’s nothing much to do but wait, and the first part—before Oliver confronts his target and while travel is still involved—always seems to make her throat tighten a little. The anticipation seems to make her jittery every time.

The first thing she does is slide the Bluetooth headset, keeping herself in contact with Oliver if he needs her. Her fingers drum against the desk to dispel some of the nervous energy, and a voice calls behind her, “Need something to do?” Felicity turns to smile to Diggle, only to find him flipping through some sort of case file at the other end of the lair.

“Actually,” she answers, “it would help me think about something than Oliver going after the same guy that tried to make him overdose on Vertigo a few months ago.” She frowns at the folder, realizing that it’s not one of the case reports Oliver picked up from Laurel or Detective Lance. She mutes her end of the phone connection with Oliver before asking, "What are you working on?" Diggle hesitates slightly, and she quickly tacks on, "If you don't mind me asking."

He offers her a slight smile before laying the open file on the desk beside her and handing her a flash drive. "I'm looking into Deadshot." Her brow furrows in question, and he continues, "Floyd Lawton killed my brother. We thought Oliver killed Lawton, but then he took that hit on Malcolm Merlyn, and I'm not okay with Deadshot being out there and free. The drive has everything I know about Lawton on it." His expression is haunted, and she knows it's probably eating him up inside. "I've called one of my contacts in ARGUS, and they agreed to meet me tonight. I just wanted to make sure all the information was there."

Felicity nods once, knowing that he probably wouldn't appreciate any questions. Instead, she plugs in the drive and pulls up the software she designed to pull information from multiple government databases. With a quick type the assassin's name, she's able to tell Digg, "Don't get me wrong, I hate this guy for what he did to your brother, but his forger is brilliant—this identity is spot on, down to elementary school discipline records and they have him down as serving jury duty twice." Diggle clears his throat, and Felicity gets the point. "But it looks like he's made a series of calls to someone named Alberto Garcia."

Curious, she types it into the program, too, then pulls up the ping from the NSA—one that rarely pings in their searches. "Oh, wow. Apparently the NSA thinks the guy is some sort of agent-slash-broker for nasty criminals like Lawton. I bet he's the guy who books the hits." She frowns. "It's not much to go on, Digg."

"Maybe not," he agrees, "but it's something. And it's definitely more than what I'lve got." He drops a hand on her shoulder as she downloads the information to the drive, handing it to him when she finishes. "Thanks, Felicity."

"No problem," she assures him, and then she hesitates. "You know," she starts slowly, "I can't do much more than track his digital trail, but Oliver wouldn't hesitate to help you with this if you needed it. He'd be a lot more useful than I would."

"I know that," Diggle answers, "but this is personal, Felicity. Lawton is my problem, and I want to be the one to put him away." Something in her face must show the concern she feels for Diggle going after a highly-trained assassin because he adds, "And I'll be careful. I'm just going to meet a friend." He scoffs. "Besides, you have more on your plate to worry about than me— _I'm_ not the one who takes on the city's worst with a bow." He offers a smile, then waves over his shoulder as he turns to leave. "My cell is on if you two need me."

Absently murmuring a goodbye, Felicity turns back to the screen, watching Oliver zoom through the streets via security cameras on one monitor and looking deeper into Floyd Lawton on the other. She'd like to have something to report to Digg, but the guy apparently covers his tracks well. Still, if there's a lose end hanging somewhere, it might be all it takes to unravel the mystery that is Deadshot. Lawton has to be an alias—she's not buying that he sang in the high school choir for a moment—so she starts digging, trying to see what other names the man might have used.

She's so deep in her search that she nearly jumps out of her chair when her cell phone rings—a generic tone used to indicate that the caller isn't in her contacts list. She pulls it out of her pocket with a frown, vowing that any telemarketer is going to get an earful for startling her. A quick glance at the number shows her it's the local area code. "Hello?" she offers, a little sharper than normal.

"Felicity?" is the tentative answer, the voice male and distorted slightly by poor reception. "This is Roy." His voice is wrong somehow, and not just the speaker distortion—his voice is quiet and his words are sluggish.

Her demeanor changes instantly, and she sets the phone on speaker so that she can continue her research into Floyd Lawton. "Is something wrong?" she asks immediately. "I'm in the middle of something that I probably shouldn't leave, but if this is an emergency, I'll leave right now. What's happening?"

"I ran into someone tonight that might be a friend of yours," he answers cryptically. "A blonde in black leather and a mask ring any bells? Carries some sort of stick or staff thing that she uses to beat the shit out of guys with?"

Felicity can feel the blood drain from her face, and her throat feels tight. "Oh God, are you hurt? She didn't hurt you, did she?" Then she realizes what he said about a friend of hers. "Roy, I don't know of any blonde vigilante running around, and she certainly doesn't work with the Arrow. What happened?"

There's a sigh through the line. "I was going to get food for me and Thea when I saw some guys try to jump a girl." Felicity lets a breath loose at the implication of that, and she can't stop the shudder up her spine. "I tried to get them to back off and there was a fight. I was losing pretty badly when she showed up and wiped the floor with them." She can hear him attempt to start the question twice before he finally asks, "Can you patch me up again? I don't want to deal with hospitals—they'll report this to the police."

She doesn't answer immediately, mulling it over. She can't leave the lair because Oliver's in the field and someone needs to be his eyes—and Diggle isn't an option since he's meeting his ARGUS contact. Tommy doesn't know enough to help with this, either, and she doesn't want Roy to know Tommy is in on this. On the other hand, Oliver will want to know more about the new vigilante, and Roy will remember more with the memory still fresh.

"Hold on for a minute," she says finally. "I need to talk to someone." Before he can answer, she mutes the line and unmutes her connection with Oliver, noting that his signal puts him in the psychiatric ward where the Count is staying. "We have an interesting development, Oliver—can you talk?"

His voice is low and soft when he answers under the synthesizer, but he does answer at least. "Go ahead," he assures her, the comm barely picking up the sound.

"Roy just called me, and apparently there's another vigilante running around Starling—blonde woman with a staff of some sort. It's a long story, but he got in a fightand needs to be patched up. Diggle left, though, and I can't aim you in the right direction if I'm not here."

"I'm not a hose," he answers dryly, the sarcasm sounding odd in his soft tone. On a more serious note, he continues, "If there's a new player in town, we need to know about them as soon as possible. I don't like the idea of someone dangerous running around my city." Felicity raises an eyebrow but somehow manages not to say that there _is_ someone dangerous in town—and he wears a green hood. Almost as though he senses her response, he corrects himself. "Someone _else_ dangerous. Ask him to come down to the lair." It's such an unexpected suggestion that Felicity falters over her answer, but Oliver cuts her off. "You trust Roy," he explains simply, "and I trust your judgment."

Even though Oliver has proven time and time again how much he trusts her, the declaration takes Felicity's breath away. She knows that trust isn't something he gives away easily, and blind trust is completely unheard of. Though she doesn't know the full story of what happened to Oliver on that island, she _does_ know that it made the ideas of trust and faith synonymous with foolish to him. By simply letting her make a decision of such magnitude so easily, he proves that she's pushed through all of his defenses, that he's let her in completely. It feels like power—and far too much of it.

Felicity swallows, nodding even though she knows he can't see her. I'll ask him to meet me here," she replies after a long moment. Finally, she mutes his connection again before going back to her conversation with one of the many other frustrating men in her life. "Roy?" she calls to get his attention. "I'm at Verdant. Can you meet me here?"

"I'm only a few blocks away," he answers. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"No, Roy," she answers, "listen to me. Tommy thinks I've gone home for the night—it's complicated." She waves a hand. "It will make sense once you get here. Take that side entrance in from the alleyway—the one that leads in by the offices. Hang a right through the first hall, and you'll see a door locked with a keypad. Knock on it five times, and I'll let you in."

"Are you freelancing for a spy now?" Roy quips dryly, and the good humor in the tone makes her think he might be smiling.

With a laugh, Felicity answers, "Close enough. Just do it, Roy. Since it's your night off, just try to keep from being seen. It would probably look a little suspicious." They exchange goodbyes and she hangs up before any more ribbing can take place.

With a new mission in mind, she sets to work, texting Tommy, Diggle, and Oliver to warn them about staying away (or staying in uniform, in Oliver's case) for tonight. Then she turns to her computer wired to the federal databases and searches for instances of a blonde, female vigilante with a staff. Surprisingly, Felicity finds a few hits, all cases where the witnesses were hysterical or otherwise unreliable. Each case has similar elements, all mentioning that the women were about to be attacked when the vigilante showed up. In each case, the would-be attackers ended up in the hospital, showing that the blonde vigilante likes taking down misogynist criminals.

Felicity can work with that.

Truth be told, Felicity kind of wants to find this woman so she can send flowers to her address. Sure, Oliver will stop a crime when it's right in front of his nose—if he's on his way elsewhere, he'll stop to help—but he's never gone after a certain type of criminal like the blonde. She genuinely hopes that the blonde turns out to be an ally—the last thing Felicity wants is to take down a girl like this who seems to be doing good things.

A knock on the lair's door breaks Felicity out of her focus, and she realizes that there's chatter in her ear—Oliver going all Arrow-y on the Count. It doesn't sound like it's going well, but the knock is her priority until she hears the word "Oracle." Just to be sure, she checks the discrete video surveillance feed in the corridor, and Roy seems to be standing there with a nasty gash across his cheekbone, a split lip, and what looks like the beginnings of a very sore black eye.

Certain of his identity, she enters the string of data to unlock the door from the computer desk, watching on the screen as he enters. As soon as he's in, she locks it, turning to watch an open-mouthed Roy take in the lair with wide eyes. "Really?" he asks finally. "This is under Verdant? Did you guys get a discount on rent?"

Felicity rolls her eyes, not bothering to look up from her computers. "Technically, we were here before Oliver and Tommy turned it into a club. They _still_ don't know we're down here. We're trying to keep it quiet." She turns to him, motioning to the ancient, decrepit chair Tommy sometimes uses when he visits. "Have a seat, and I'll see what I can do about that cut on your face."

He ignores her, though it seems to be more because of curiosity than anything else, immediately going over to the arrows on the table and running his index finger along the end of one of them. From the toolbox full of medical equipment, Felicity calls to him, "Don't do that."

Roy scoffs, still ignoring her direction. "What," he challenges, "does the Arrow get pissy when people touch his arrows?" It's a joke, and, truthfully, Felicity understands the need to touch something around here to be sure it's not just an elaborate dream. The lair is a little surreal at times, even though she's been working in it for a few months now.

"No, it's not that," she answers as she draws up lidocaine for more suturing. "It's just that if you cut yourself on one of those, it hurts worse than a paper cut." She feels his eyes on her even as she fills the syringe, and she shrugs. "I had to learn that the hard way, and I think you have enough injuries for one night."

Roy studies her a moment gesturing to the arrows and the station where Oliver makes them. "He makes these?" Before Felicity can answer, Roy holds up a package of tennis balls. "And why are these here?"

"All arrows used in the pursuit of bad guys are made right there where you're standing," Felicity answers dryly as she gathers the rest of the supplies she needs. "And the tennis balls are for target practice—he throws them up in the air or lets them bounce while putting arrows in them."  She waves a hand toward her desk and the second chair. "Sit down, and I'll patch you up."

He does as she asks, and Felicity watches Roy close his eyes before even attempting to inject the lidocaine into the cut on his cheek. Despite all dislike for needles, he takes the procedure very well. His eyes immediately open when she finishes, as if he's trying to take in the lair as much as possible before he leaves. "You've done this a few times, haven't you?" he asks, curiosity burning in his voice.

She's about to tell him that it's part of the job description when you sign on to help a vigilante, but a flicker of movement on one of her computer screens draws her attention away. Felicity would recognize that figure anywhere—Detective Lance, talking to one of the doctors in the corridors. It's easy enough to figure out that he's there for the same reason Oliver is: to talk to the Count about the recent shipments of Vertigo wreaking havoc in the city.

Felicity instead holds up an index finger in warning for Roy to be quiet before pressing the unmute button on her comm. "Arrow," she starts, careful to keep Oliver's identity a secret, "you have company. It looks like Detective Lance is on his way to your location."

She can hear bits and pieces of the Count's ramblings in her ear when Oliver replies, "I'm on my way back to you." There's a deep sigh. "He's of no use, anyway." He doesn't offer any further explanation, but Felicity isn't sure she wants to ask for the details right now anyway. Muting her comm seems like the best option for the moment, and the rest can wait until Oliver returns.

Turning back to Roy to show him that the previous conversation is over, Felicity smiles at him. "We'll give the lidocaine a few moments to kick in, and then I'll suture that up," she informs him.

"One condition," Roy responds immediately, and then a hint of a smile plays at his features. "No lighters this time." He crosses his arms and waits, letting her know that he trusts her actions completely, lighter or no.

With a smile and a dry tone, she responds, "I make no promises."

 

* * *

 

Roy closes his eyes before the suture needle goes in even though he can't feel it, deciding that it's a whole lot easier to pretend it's not a needle if he can't see it. Felicity is careful and methodical, stopping at times to adjust his head at a tilt in order to properly run the needle through. It's a slower process this time—probably because of the location—but he's just grateful he didn't have to go to a hospital.

"I thought I told you to stay out of trouble," a voice that is _not_ Felicity's calls across the room. Roy jumps at the Arrow's synthesized voice, not having heard him walk in. The needle in Felicity's hand feels cold as it misses its mark, but she pulls back before she can stab him with it.

"For the record," Roy starts slowly, "I was _trying_ to stay out of trouble. I can't help it if trouble finds _me_." By the end, his tone is defensive, and he realizes too late that he probably shouldn't take his authority issues out on the guy who puts arrows in people every night. While Felicity seems confident about the Arrow, Roy doesn't know him well enough to decide if the guy would put an arrow in _Roy_ if he became too much of a problem.

A scoff comes from in front of him, even as she continues stitching up the wound on Roy's cheekbone. "Sounds like someone else I know," Felicity responds dryly, the insinuation clear. Apparently the Arrow has used a similar line himself a time or two, and it sounds like she doesn't buy it, either. Clearly trying to change the subject, she asks, "How did things go with the Count?" Then she pats Roy on the shoulder. "You're done.

This time a sigh echoes through the synthesizer. Roy swivels in the chair to find the Arrow at the table where the weaponry lies, placing his bow on it. Then he walks over to the steel gurney in the middle of the room, pulling himself up to sit on it. "The Count isn't responsible for the new version of Vertigo running around the streets," is his answer, confident and definitive. "He's—" The Arrow breaks off into a rush of a language Roy doesn't recognize, the words running together into sounds for lack of comprehension.

Nor does Felicity know, judging by her reaction. "My understanding of Mandarin is limited to five words and three of those are numbers," she replies dryly, crossing her arms. Roy files the information away for later, curious as to how he learned the language so well.

"His mind is gone," the Arrow clarifies. Then, with something that looks like a smile, he circles a hand around his head with a long, drawn out _bah_ sound. "We'll have to find another way to get to the producer." He turns to Roy. "What happened with this vigilante you met?"

"She attacked the guys with a giant stick," Roy answers dryly. "She must have known I was trying to help because she made sure I was okay before leaving." He frowns as he pieces together old information, shining new light on it. "The girl that she was saving sent out a text—possibly to the vigilante. She called her the Canary, if that helps." The Arrow doesn't respond, so Roy continues. "The girl—I've seen her around before, and I think she lives in the Glades." He hesitates. "I could… reach out to some of my old contacts, see if anyone can lead me to her." The Arrow nods once, and it gives Roy the courage to try again. "And the drugs you're trying to stop, I can find where they're dealing out of." He shrugs. "It's not much, but it's a start."

It seems to give the Arrow an idea. "Felicity," he says suddenly, and Roy watches as she immediately goes alert, switching into a business mode. "Could you put a tracer on some cash?"

"Yeah," she answers slowly after a long moment, running it through. "It shouldn't be _too_ much of a problem." She lifts an eyebrow. "What are you thinking now?" The concern is buried in her voice, but Roy can hear it, making him wonder how he didn't put it together earlier about Felicity and the Arrow dating.

"If we can get someone to buy Vertigo," he starts carefully, "we can get a lab sample for your _friend_ "—it's said with weight, as to indicate to Felicity without telling Roy—"to analyze the sample's components. We got a lock on him before that way. But, if we could trace the cash, we could follow the money back to its source." He studies Felicity for a long moment, communicating something to her via expression that Roy can't follow. "I'm out of the question, and our… _associate_ will stand out—even these guys will be able to spot military posture."

With a shrug, Felicity replies, "I could go."

At the same time as the Arrow, Roy firmly snaps, " _No_." They study each other for a moment in surprise, and Roy earns himself another nod of approval—and possibly a few points with the Arrow. "Let me go in," Roy insists. "They won't think twice about some kid from the Glades showing up to score."

The Arrow doesn't answer, and Roy finally adds, "Look, you saved me. Not just from the guy who was going to kill me. I'm turning my life around, trying to be something better than what I was. I owe you for that—and I don't like owing people. So let me try to pay it back."

A long moment of indecision plays out between them, and finally the vigilante nods, albeit a little reluctantly this time. Felicity's expression mirrors his—deep hesitation and distaste—but she finally says, "Call me when you have the information about the Vertigo operation, and I'll get you the bugged cash. We can do it on a night when you're working—I'll tell Tommy I need your help to move stuff around down here to setup the wireless network."

Roy nods once. "Thanks for patching me up, Blondie," he says with a dry smile. "I'll call you when I know something. But I should probably get back home—Thea is waiting for me to bring back food."

Felicity's eyes flick to the Arrow for a moment, then back to Roy with a smile. "Just do me a favor and stay out of the back alleys this time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> “Untouched” - The Veronicas  
> "21st Century Breakdown" - Green Day  
> "Show Me the Way" - Peter Frampton  
> "Superstition" - Stevie Wonder  
> "Crazy on You" - Heart  
> "Crutch" - Matchbox Twenty


	44. Currency Tracking Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity, Roy, and Oliver go buy drugs. While that might sound as flippant as the other chapter summaries, rest assured that that's _precisely_ what happens in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/5VAKxCwC2eO1oulw7RofeG).
> 
> This chapter was a whole lot of fun for a whole lot of reasons—hopefully you’ll know what I’m talking about when you see it. And I have a new perspective for you at the end. Also… there might be something of a cliffhanger. ;) Reviews and comments are much appreciated, but thanks for reading, too! :D

At the same time a knock sounds on the basement door in the lair, Felicity's cell phone rings. Frowning at the dilemma, she first checks the security camera to ensure that it is, in fact, Roy Harper before using the computer control to let him in. Then her cell phone comes next, the tone indicating the caller so that she doesn't have to look. "I told you we have something going down tonight. Not that I don't love you platonically, but make it quick, Merlyn," she rushes out.

Of course Tommy would choose the worst time to call; he knows that Roy has spent the last two days trying to find where they're dealing Vertigo, and that they finally have a location. Tonight Roy is going to be the one to make the purchase, which worked out because Diggle is contacting his friend at ARGUS again about Deadshot. Vertigo has been Roy's priority, so they still have nothing on the Canary—except that she's stopped three more attempted rape cases since Roy caught up with her.

"I hate to interrupt Robin Hood and his merry band of thieves," he replies cheerfully, his tone telling her that he doesn't take offense at her rush, "but we have some other problems to think about right now. I tried to call Oliver, but he's not picking up." As Tommy clears his throat, Felicity thinks wryly that it's probably because he's in the bathroom changing into his vigilante gear. "Mr. Lance came by Laurel's place last night to see me. The girl who died? She texted me wanting into the club, and Lance's partner dug up the fact that Ollie paid off the inspector not to check the basement. I told him to get a warrant to stall things, but he'll have one by tomorrow afternoon, and he wants into that basement."

Felicity sighs deeply, wondering when all of her problems started to involve evading the police or nasty criminals. Roy walks in at the same time, frowning in confusion when he sees her on the phone. "When we get back from this errand, we'll help you clean things up," she assures him as calmly as possible. "And I'll relay the message right now—it's going to be fine."

After saying their goodbyes, she hangs up, intending to speak to Roy. He beats her to the punch, staring at the overturned wooden table in the corner. “Whoa, did you to have a fight?” he asks.

“Actually,” she corrects, “the Count ended up escaping from the mental institution— _after_ the Arrow spoke to him.” Roy doesn’t seem to understand the significance, so she continues, “The Arrow doesn’t like being played, and he seems to have a tendency for overturning tables when he’s pissed.” Truthfully, it was a little scary; Diggle had announced the information he’d heard on the news, and then Oliver had turned to the table, flipping it without a second glance. Even when he’s furious, he somehow manages to control the anger.

"Not that it’s not good to see you," she continues with a frazzled smile, “but we kind of have an unexpected development we need to discuss, so just wait here for a moment. Don't touch my computers or cut yourself on those arrowheads." Without waiting for a response, she turns toward the bathroom.

Behind her, she hears Roy call, "I'm not five, Blondie." Felicity smiles at his dry tone, biting back the urge to tell him that he acts like a kid in a candy shop when he's down in the lair. Still, Roy actually looks happy to be helping them, and she doesn't think he's had much to be happy about in his life. She can't blame him—helping Oliver on his crusade has been an unexpected bright spot in her life, too.

She slides through the doorway into the bathroom just in case Roy is looking in the direction of the bathroom, ready to immediately start relaying the information. She manages part of a word before it finally catches up to her that he's pulling the leather pants up over his hips, shirtless and facing away from her.

Some sort of choking of her mouth instead, and he turns enough to note her presence, a slow smile turning his lips upward. "Sorry—I didn't come in here to ogle you," she manages finally, in a high-pitched rush of words. "It's just that I didn't expect to walk in on _that_." She waves her hand to aid the explanation and to work off some of the nervous energy. "And now I can't remember what I walked in here for. Not that I'm complaining—feel free to distract me like this anytime." She cringes as her words catch up to her, but she's not even going to try to salvage that one.

He finishes pulling his pants on before turning around—something that she's grateful for because one verbal gaffe is enough for one situation. The smile he gives her makes Felicity think he doesn't quite mind her staring, and he walks up to her, letting his hands drop on her waist. "You don't have to apologize, Felicity," he answers, and the quirk to his mouth can only be described as a smirk.

"I'm only sorry I got caught," she admits truthfully, and Oliver smiles but turns his attention downward. It's only when she follows his gaze that Felicity realizes her right index finger has decided to trace the Bratva tattoo on his pectoral of its own volition.

All it takes is one look at Oliver’s face, clear with intent, to realize that he’s done with words now, opting to forgo speech in favor of kissing. Felicity, of course, is perfectly okay with that, her hands sliding up to cup his face while his stay firmly planted on her hips. Somehow she ends up backed against the door, but she can't bring herself to give a damn that the door handle is pressing painfully against the small of her back.

That pain is remedied, though, when he lifts her onto the countertop without breaking the kiss, stepping between her legs. They immediately lock around his waist when he draws her bottom lip into his mouth, and she realizes that her hands seem to have wandered to his chest again, then around to press against his shoulder blades.

Remembering that they have other things to do, she groans before breaking away from him. Oliver seems to be more reluctant to do so, pressing his lips to the junction between her shoulder and neck with a sigh. "As much as I'd love to continue this, we need to go buy drugs. Which sounded less criminal in my head, but you know what I mean." He chuckles in response, and she can feel his breath against her skin. “You confuse my thoughts when you kiss me like that—and always in the most inconvenient times, too.”

“It gives me a reason to stop,” he answers, an unreadable expression on his face. It takes her a moment to understand his words, but then she realizes that their impromptu make-out sessions are starting to come at more awkward times. This isn’t her first time sitting on the bathroom counter after being kissed senseless, and Felicity is starting to think that this is Oliver’s subtle way of telling her that he’s ready to stop taking things slow without trying to pressure her.

Part of her wants to ask about it, but Felicity decides they have more important things to do, especially as she remembers the point of coming into the bathroom. "Oh, and Tommy called—that's what I was going to tell you. Lance has to investigate the club because of the way the evidence is leading, and apparently he's going to get a warrant in the morning to search all of it, including the basement." Oliver looks up at her then, and she drops her index finger over his mouth before he can speak. "But I have a plan. We're going to be here all night getting things changed around, though—but Tommy will help, too."

"And Roy?" Oliver asks as he grabs his jacket from the other side of the counter. He doesn't seem to mind the fact that Felicity's legs are still locked around him, not bothering to pull away from her. "I’m not sure if he’s ready for this."

Felicity grabs the mask from the counter, pulling it over his head while he slides his arms into the jacket. "I think he wants to help you," she answers as she situates the mask and stops to admire her handiwork. "And I think he knows this is the best way to do that. Speaking from my own experience, it's nice to feel like you belong to something, especially after spending your childhood being an outsider."

Oliver shoots her a glance because it isn't really an answer, and she reaches down to fasten the zipper on his jacket, sliding it up as she continues, "But if he isn't up for this, you'll be right outside to save him." She pulls his hood up over his head. “I have a spare comm that he can use.” Finally, Felicity picks up the voice synthesizer from the counter, clipping it to the inside of his jacket and switching it on as Oliver pulls on the green leather gloves.

Now fully dressed, he lifts Felicity from the counter with hands on her waist, one of his hands taking hers before walking out into the lair. His eyes immediately focus in on Roy, who has apparently decided that handling Oliver’s bow is a good idea. Felicity cringes when she sees it, hoping that Oliver doesn’t decide that the teenager is more trouble than he’s worth.

“That bow has a one hundred and fifty-pound draw,” he calls out to Roy, who jumps slightly at the approach. “If you snap it, you’ll be blinded by fiber shrapnel. I’d have to find another bow.” Felicity watches the corners of Oliver’s mouth tick up, his eyes flicking toward her before going back to Roy. “And another partner—I think Felicity would quit if you were hurt on my watch. At least the bow is easy to replace.”

Unable to stop the smile that forms, Felicity picks up two of the comm devices, slipping one into Oliver’s ear, dipping one hand under the hood. “While I appreciate the flattery,” she replies dryly, “I’m not mad at you and I don’t accept credit for when you _do_ screw up.” Then she turns to Roy, handing him the other comm. “This is an earpiece, and it will keep you in contact with us. If things go wrong, we’ll know. Consider it your own vigilante protection service.” She takes the bow from his hands, picking it up by the ornate section of metal in the center. “Just be careful—and don’t pick up anyone else’s weapons.”

Felicity doesn’t expect Roy to be apologetic, and she isn’t disappointed. “That bow has put arrows in a lot of criminals running around Starling,” he answers with a shrug as she hands the bow back to Oliver. “I’m not the only one who would pick it up if they saw it sitting here.”

She takes the set of flechettes from the table, fastening the cuff around Oliver’s forearm as he uses his free hand to select arrows for his quiver. “Actually,” she corrects slowly, “most people would be daunted by the growly vigilante, but I understand the curiosity—I think it was the first thing I picked up when I was down here.” Felicity pauses, correcting herself. “Well, technically, the first thing I picked up when I came here was a screwdriver to remove the front panel of the defibrillator, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

Roy doesn’t quite seem to know what to say to that, but Oliver, at least, appreciates her correction with a chuckle. She grabs the boy in the red hoodie by the arm, pulling him for a few steps. “We’ll meet you at the van,” she calls over her shoulder, knowing that Oliver can’t use the front entrance while wearing the suit.

It’s a short walk up the stairs, and Oliver is already waiting for the two of them in the back of the van by the time they reach the top. Felicity crawls in the driver’s seat, since Oliver probably shouldn’t be seen in his hood gear, and Roy decides to sit in the back with Oliver. “Can I ask you a question?” he says to the vigilante as Felicity turns the ignition. She can practically hear Oliver’s reluctance, and Roy must see something because he rushes on, “It’s not about your identity.”

There’s a long pause, as if waiting for Oliver’s permission. “What made you decide to do this? To try and save this city like this?” He scoffs. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t think you just woke up one morning and thought, ‘This city has gone to hell—I think I’ll dress up in a green hood and put arrows in the guys screwing everything up.’”

Felicity coughs to cover the urge to chuckle, and Oliver lets out a breathy sound through the synthesizer she recognizes as a laugh. “It wasn’t that simple,” he admits slowly. “And I never would have thought of this on my own.” He sighs before answering carefully, “I lost someone I cared about—someone who felt they contributed to the destruction of this city. I wanted to honor them by righting those wrongs.” He chuckles humorlessly. “I didn’t know how at first—all I’ve ever been good at is inflicting pain. But I found a way to make that work to my advantage, and I’m trying to save this city in the only way I can.”

It’s quiet for several minutes of the drive, but then Roy asks abruptly, “Does anyone know what you do?” He goes quiet for a moment. “Your family—they have to know about this, right? That their son or brother is out risking their life for a city that’s only trying to lock him up with the criminals he’s helped put away?”

Oliver chooses not to answer that one, and Felicity decides to take up the silence before they drown in it. “The fewer people that know, the better,” she answers cryptically on Oliver’s behalf, trying to distract Roy. “We’ve seen what happens when people try to exploit his identity, and so he makes sure that he can trust the person first.” She can’t resist a parting shot. “And then he still doesn’t tell them even though he should have, and lets them figure it out on their own.”

A hand drops on her shoulder, and then Oliver’s synthesized voice says into her ear, “Pull up against the curb here—we’ll hang back and wait.” She thinks she’s in the clear for her comment, but then he leans in again, and this time she can feel his lips moving when he adds, “And I always trusted you, Felicity—even if I didn’t tell you when I should have.” Then, as though he never spoke, he turns back toward Roy. “Get in, get the drugs, and get out. Don’t try anything else. If things take an unexpected turn, let us know through the comm, but don’t do anything stupid. Wait for me, and I’ll take care of the situation.”

Felicity turns as she shuts off the van’s engine, just in time to watch Roy nod once, swallowing nervously. “I won’t let you down,” he promises firmly. Felicity has to bite back a retort, the desire to tell him that what matters is that he walks out of there safely.

The opportunity is lost, though, as Roy leaves the van and steps into the night. She watches him weave down a back alley, and then he’s out of sight, the only sound his breathing on the comm. His is the only one active; Oliver and Felicity muted their ends to keep from distracting him. Felicity drops down next to him on the bench seating with a sigh, and Oliver wraps an arm around her, pulling her into his shoulder so that she can rest her head

Her thoughts twisting in an entirely different direction now that she has time to think about it, she blurts her conclusion to him only seconds after she reaches it: “You don’t have to stop, you know.” His head immediately snaps to hers in response, and she hopes her look conveys exactly what she feels.

If not for the way his lips press against her forehead, she’d think he didn’t hear her at all, choosing not to use words in favor of actions for the second time that night. Even if he wanted to, though, he doesn’t get the chance, as Roy’s voice crackles across the comms, purchasing the drugs. The exchange seems to go well and quickly, ending as Roy pops back into the van with a small bag of green-and-purple pills.

Felicity takes them from him immediately, staring at the pills that have caused so much damn trouble in the past few months. She murmurs thanks, but she doubts he hears because Oliver extends his hand to Roy. “This could save a lot of lives, Roy,” he says quietly through the synthesizer. “Thank you.”

Looking incredibly pleased with himself, Roy shakes hands again with the man who is undoubtedly his idol. But the expression on his face turns blank, and he shrugs. “You saved me,” he explains simply. “I owe you for that—even after this.” He hesitates. “And if you need something other than information on the Canary, let me know.”

“I will,” Oliver promises, and Felicity thinks that Roy Harper might have just earned the trust of one of the most distrustful people on the planet.

 

* * *

 

The woman who was once known as Sara Lance stares down at the unconscious boy in the red hoodie, waiting for him to awaken. While she was more than grateful for his attempt to save Sin, she can’t exactly have him snooping into her business—harmless or not. Everyone aware of her presence is a threat, another step closer to bringing the League down on everyone who tries to help her.

And while the Canary shows mercy to her enemies, the League takes no prisoners.

“What do you think?” Sin asks slowly, the one person Sara trusts. Even she, however, doesn’t know the name of the Canary, and it’s only fair. Sara Lance died five years ago, the Canary taking her place. Her reflection in the mirror might be the same, but Sara Lance could never have survived. “Do you think he’s with the dudes that are after you? He’s been kind of persistent—chased me for six blocks.”

While this boy might be persistent and particularly nosy, Sara scoffs a little at the idea of him being part of the League. Even Sin doesn’t know the details of the League of Assassins, and it’s far better that way. “No,” she answers firmly, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t trouble.” He groans, and she nudges him with her boot as she switches on the synthesizer on her belt. “I didn’t expect to see you again. While I’m sure my friend is grateful for your help before, you’re not welcome here.” She regrips the bo staff in her hand, using it as leverage to sink down until she’s perched on the balls of her feet in front of the teenager. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t want any trouble,” he starts slowly, holding up his hands as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “A friend of mine wants to talk to you—that’s all.” He winces slightly, frowning as he motions to the staff. “Look, if you want to hit me with that thing, fine, but just avoid the face. My girlfriend is still pissed about this.” He motions to the puckered injury over his cheek.

For the first time, Sara notices the stitches in the wound, and she grabs his head to tilt it up, examining the stitches against the boy’s protests. With her experience with wounds—both inflicting and repairing her own—she can tell that they aren’t hospital-grade, but still administered by someone who knew what they were doing. Suddenly the boy is a more interesting mystery, one that she’s determined to solve.

“Who is your friend?” Sara asks firmly, watching as he flinches slightly. This time, though, instead of an answer, she’s met with defiance. Though it only makes her interrogation more difficult—she won’t torture him, despite how good she is at it—she admires the loyalty. It’s a rare trait in her world, and she knows to respect it.

Rising to her feet, Sara flicks the end of the bo staff in front of his throat in a swift movement, a not-so-subtle threat that she’ll stab it through his trachea if he tries something. “Take the cell phone,” she directs Sin, knowing her gloves will hamper her work with the touchscreen. “I want to know who he’s been talking to.”

With a quick pat of his pockets, Sin pulls out a newer model touchscreen phone, flicking through it more quickly than Sara could have managed herself. Her eyes widen at the screen, and she lets out a low whistle. “Last text was from Thea Queen—damn, Abercrombie, you’re mixing with royalty.” Frowning at the name, the Canary can’t help but think that it’s quite a small world—the last name she’d expect to hear after so many years would be a Queen’s. A moment later, Sin adds, “Wait, there’s a text with the word Canary. ‘Let me know what you hear about the Canary—do not engage,’” she reads slowly, before looking up at the boy with a quirked eyebrow. “Do you screw up _everything_ you do, Abercrombie?” She turns to Sara. “It looks like we have a name, though—Felicity Smoak.” Sin scoffs at the name. “Can’t be _too_ many of those running around Starling.”

“Look,” the boy starts, “Felicity isn’t anyone you should worry about. She’s just an innocent civilian—she’s never even gotten a parking ticket.” His mouth purses ever so slightly in another show of defiance, and Sara knows that they’re looking in the right direction. “But if you hurt her, she has friends who would tear this city apart to find you.” Surprisingly, he doesn’t mean it as a threat—it’s a warning, one issued even after he’s seen Sara’s ability in a fight. There are very few people that give her trouble, and apparently the boy thinks the Smoak girl knows one of them. Or perhaps more.

With a quick twirl of the bo staff, Sara knocks the boy unconscious, again delivering the blow to the back of his skull before turning to Sin. “Grab your things,” she orders quietly. “This safe house is compromised—we’re going to Friday. Leave him here—we’ll find another Tuesday house later.”

Sin does as she asks, then turns with a frown. “But what are we gonna do about the chick looking into you?” she questions as Sara holds out her hand for the phone. Sin drops it in her hand, and then the Canary pockets it in the inside of her jacket. “She knows your nickname—the one your enemies gave you. If she knows it, they could, too.”

“Now,” Sara responds simply, “we find Felicity Smoak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "How You Remind Me" - Nickelback  
> "One by One" - Cher  
> “That’s Where You Take Me” - Britney Spears  
> “Fallen Angels” - Black Veil Brides  
> “Heroes (we could be)” - Alesso feat. Tove Lo  
> “This Will Be the Day” - Jeff Williams feat. Casey Lee Williams


	45. Synchronization of Mobile Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity finds the Canary. Well, technically speaking, the Canary finds her—it would be unfair to give Felicity all the credit when Sara did all the work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/0OXDZuGuORsGNY4m3cKN80).
> 
> Special thanks to befitandchase (I believe she's chasethewind over here) for taking the time to look the bonus scene over for me. It was out of my area of expertise, and she wanted something different to look at. So thank you, Chase!!
> 
> New realization: I love Anton Chekhov and his guns. Even though it wasn't really meant to be one, it just felt right for this scene. :D (If you don't know what a Chekhov's gun is, I highly recommend looking it up on TV Tropes.) Anyway, I had fun with this—especially the bonus scene—and I hope you guys really enjoy this. I'd be pleased to know what you thought, but hey, thanks for reading, either way. ;)
> 
> **Friendly reminder:** No new chapter of TA next week. Sorry, but I'm going to be securing my future in the veterinary medicine profession. Hopefully. :P See you guys again on March 12.
> 
> **One other housekeeping note:** I've gone back and changed all of the notes for the chapter summaries at the beginning because I want to go with a different style. So if you're wondering, that's what happened. I'd love to hear what you guys think, if you're interested. ;)

The first kiss of sunlight has started to grace the sky by the time Felicity gets home, her shoulders drooping with fatigue from the night before. Rearranging the lair for Lance’s search had been a challenge, even with Oliver, Diggle, and Tommy to assist. That still didn’t mean she allowed anyone near her computers, however, so she’d done most of that herself. Still, it meant that none of them would go to jail, which is always a bonus in her world.

Her keys drop into the bowl as she wonders when Oliver will finally arrive. He’d wanted to take one last patrol through the city, trying to encounter the Canary before Roy could get himself into trouble. But Felicity hadn’t heard positive news from either of them, so it’s likely to take longer before any of them get an opportunity to speak to the Canary.

Felicity’s apartment is dark as she takes off her jacket, but she can make out a figure in her living room in her peripheral vision as she hangs up the coat. She breathes a sigh of relief that Oliver made it back in one piece. “Hey,” she calls out. “I was wondering when you’d get in—the sun is starting to rise. Don’t you have some sort of rule against that, or are you just trying to make Starling think you’re a vampire?” Felicity shakes her head to clear it as she slides off her shoes and drops her purse on the table. “You know how my thoughts get twisted when I’m tired. If you want something to eat, I think I have some leftover Thai food in the fridge.”

Only then does she turn toward the living room, and she stops dead in her tracks as two things immediately dawn on her. The first is that she _really_ should have kept her cell phone in her pocket because it does her no good in her purse.

The second is that they don’t have to look for the Canary anymore.

The female vigilante studies Felicity with eyes shaded by a mask, her expression unreadable though it looks like her lips are pressed together to keep herself from smiling. A black mask is fixed across her eyes, blonde hair falling naturally to her shoulders, brushing the top of her black leather jacket, worn over what looks like a black corset. She looks casually at home sitting in Felicity’s chair, one leather-clad leg draped over the other, and a silver staff of some sort draped across the chair but still in reach.

“And you are not at all who I expected,” Felicity blurts slightly, stepping into the living room, but staying away from her newest intruder. “But the offer for that leftover Thai food still stands, if you want it.” She motions to herself. “I don’t think it’s your style, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t hurt me. I’m still kind of recovering from the _last_ masked woman to surprise me.”

Though she doesn’t know what she expects from the Canary, it certainly isn’t for a slight smile to slowly spread across her features. Before twisting a white device on her belt, she assures Felicity, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Her voice comes out in an odd combination of tones, masking her voice more subtly than Oliver’s synthesizer. Then she pulls something out of her jacket that looks like a smartphone, holding it up before dropping it on the table. “I just want to know why you’re looking for me.”

Dread claws at Felicity, already knowing there’s no way she could have learned that tidbit on her own. With slow, methodical steps, she walks over to the coffee table, and one swipe of the screen reveals a picture of Roy and Thea as the background. “What did you do to him?” she asks slowly, not sure if she wants to know the answer but knowing she needs to ask. “Because Roy didn’t do anything except for keep his ears on the street—for _me_. He doesn’t _know_ anything, and he _better_ ”—she jerks a finger in the vigilante’s direction as a warning—“not be hurt.”

“I don’t hurt civilians—especially not ones that help my friends,” she insists. The answer is immediate, and Felicity drops onto the end of the couch closest to the Canary’s chair with a sigh of relief. “He should be waking up in a now abandoned safe house any moment.” Her head tilts to the side, her mouth turning down at one corner. “And you don’t seem too surprised to have an intruder in your home.”

“I wish I could say this was a new experience for me,” Felicity answers with a sigh. It’s starting to be a little tedious, and a feeling of déjà vu washes over her. The feeling of having someone break into her house should _not_ be familiar, and it serves as a reminder of the insanity her life has become. “Why did you come to me?”

The Canary tenses slightly. “I don’t like people looking into me,” she answers, a darkness creeping into her tone that puts Felicity on edge more than Oliver’s you-have-failed-this-city voice. “I want to know why a computer technician at Queen Consolidated is interested in finding me.”

Felicity blinks twice. “Oh, wow,” she breathes. “You took time out of your busy schedule of beating up misogynist criminals to look into me. I don’t think I’ve felt this mixture of flattered and wigged out since my _last_ intruder made an unexpected appearance.” She shakes her head. “And I’m not looking into you.”

It’s clear the Canary doesn’t buy it, and Felicity rushes on to say, “Well I _am_ looking into you, technically speaking. But I’m also not—it’s not my choice. Believe me, I’d be perfectly glad to let you run around Starling City, kicking would-be rapist ass and saving Roy from the result of his own horrible-but-well-intentioned judgments.” She shakes her head wildly. “I’m not looking into you for _my_ purposes,” she clarifies finally. “I’m doing it on behalf of…” How does she classify Oliver without giving it away? Friend? Not “lover”—that’s a weird word, ew. Definitely not “Oliver,” and “the Arrow” sounds a little ominous at this point. “Someone else,” she finishes lamely.

The response is a laugh—an actual, honest-to-God laugh from the Canary. The sound startles Felicity, but she relaxes. “You’re cute,” the Canary comments quietly with a smile, and the IT girl takes a moment to determine that no, she isn’t hallucinating. The kick-ass, female vigilante with the huge staff-thing just called Felicity _cute_. That’s definitely going on the list of weird things that have happened to her—somewhere between dating the Arrow and being attacked by her boyfriend’s ex. “I want the name of your employer.”

“Not my employer,” Felicity is surprised to hear herself reply immediately. “He’s my partner. And while I can’t give you _his_ name, I can give you _a_ name.” She bites her lip for a brief moment. “The Arrow.”

Instead of surprise, like most have shown at the revelation, the Canary actually seems to buy it. “Of course,” she mutters, and Felicity has no idea how to interpret _that_ reaction. Louder, she asks, “The Arrow is your intruder?”

Felicity nods once, pointing to the far end of the couch. “He usually sits there,” she finds herself replying. “And Roy is sort of an unofficial informant, so when he ran into you a few nights ago, he called me.” She crosses her arms. “The Arrow is a little skeptical about you. After all, you showed up a few weeks after we put away another vigilante who liked to kill people on a live webcam feed. That didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the startup-vigilantes who came after the Arrow did.” She shrugs. “He wanted to make sure you weren’t trouble, but…” She’s surprised by the words that are lingering in her mouth, but she says them anyway: “I think we should work together.”

The Canary seems just as surprised as Felicity by the offer, she adjusts her glasses before continuing on, “Hear me out. I don’t know about you, but the Arrow goes after some pretty nasty guys. Sometimes it turns dangerous, and it would be nice if he had some backup in the field who could make a public appearance. I’m not saying we would work together _all_ the time, but on certain missions that would interest both of you.” She bites her lip. “Like this one, for instance—we’re trying to stop the new flood of Vertigo into the Glades, and I’d bet the increased drug usage is making your job a little harder, too.” Musing it over again, Felicity decides she very much likes the idea. “It will throw the police off—especially if they don’t know when to expect us.”

Felicity can tell that the blonde vigilante is thinking it over, too. “You haven’t talked to the Arrow about this,” she asks slowly, but it’s not really a question. “If you can convince him that this is the best course, I wouldn’t be opposed to a few missions together.” She crosses her arms, making her look more imposing than before. “My identity is my own, and I’m not interested in his.” It’s a demand, a qualifier. “And my friend Sin, she’s off-limits. You won’t approach her with any of this. If you can agree to those terms, I’m prepared to work together.”

As if punctuating the thought, Felicity’s phone rings with the Batman ringtone, and she immediately motions wildly toward her purse. “Do you mind if I get this?” she rushes out. “That’s probably him right now.” The Canary waves a hand in a by-all-means gesture, and Felicity runs for the backup phone they still use to discuss Arrow missions to keep them both anonymous. Slightly breathy, she answers, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Oliver answers, the synthesizer still on. “I finished the patrol—there’s no sign of the Canary tonight.” Felicity has to bite back a chuckle because of the frustration in his voice, suddenly made amusing because the woman he’s looking for is sitting in her living room.

“Actually,” Felicity replies slowly, “I think I found her.” After biting her lip a moment, she answers, “Don’t freak out, but she’s actually sitting in my living room.” Oliver starts to ask questions, but she barrels over the top of him. “Don’t worry—she’s just another friendly vigilante on my furniture. Roy found her and, well, she found me. And I think we can work something out where the two of you can work together every once in a while.”

Clearly he doesn’t like the way the situation has changed, judging by the sudden silence on the other end of the line. Finally, there’s a sigh. “I’ll consider it,” he says slowly, and they both know it means he’s going to do it. “But not now—it’s nearly daylight, and I’d rather meet her somewhere alone, where she can’t use you as a bargaining chip.” The thought hadn’t occurred to Felicity, and she feels her blood go cold as she realizes what could have happened.

Oliver doesn’t let her dwell on it, though. “We also need to give that sample to Barry, which means a trip to Central City in the next few days. If you can take off the rest of the week from work,” he suggests slowly, “we could make the drive to Central City and focus on this case before the Count causes _more_ problems for the city. Give the Canary the number for your burner phone, and tell her to call and set up a meet in two days.”

Felicity nods once, suddenly grave because of the way things have changed. It was easy to get lost in the thought that the Canary could have hurt her. But, then again, Oliver could have, too, when she first met him as the Arrow—but neither one did. She had felt that first, initial trust with both of them, and both times it had been worth the risk to make the leap. Squaring her shoulders with new resolve, Felicity asks, “Anything else?”

Oliver’s response is immediate: “I’m buying a new lock for the window that leads to your fire escape.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity jumps when Saphira starts crying at the same fire escape that apparently all of Starling City’s vigilantes use. It causes her to reach for the baseball bat, palming the cell phone in her other hand as she prepares to call Oliver at the first sight of the intrusion. Then she lets loose a deep sigh of relief when the familiar bow and green hood appear, letting her know it’s Oliver in his Arrow gear. She hasn’t seen him enter this way in a very long time, and it takes her a moment to realize that he rushed back to her apartment.

He lets the hood fall back, then pulls the mask down around his neck with one hand while placing his bow on the dresser with his other. “Are you all right?” he asks quietly, his gloved dropping on her shoulders. His eyes are so intense that all she can do is nod for a moment, and then she’s pulled into a hug, lips pressing against her hair.

“I was tired earlier,” she mutters against his chest, wrapping her arms around him, “but I think there’s enough adrenaline in my system to keep me going for a few more days—who knew an encounter with a vigilante could be enough to jolt you awake?” She barely notices that her thoughts are echoing in her ears, distracted by the warmth of Oliver’s arms around her and her own musings. “Well, I mean, _you_ always jolt me awake, but I don’t think that has anything to do with you being a vigilante. I think it has to do with you being… _you_. And the way you look at me. Did you know you have really expressive eyes? Because you do. I have a lot of really _good_ dreams that start with the crazy-intense eye thing that you do before you kiss me.”

Oliver pulls away from her, far enough so that she can see he has an eyebrow raised in question, a hint of a smile on his face. Heat floods through Felicity when she relays the words back in her head, and then she groans at her own gaffe. Oliver apparently isn’t ready to let it go, though. “My dreams usually start with that night on the couch,” he admits, and Felicity can’t do much more than gape at him for a long moment. He doesn’t seem ashamed of the admission, doesn’t seem to have the same embarrassment she carries with her every time her thoughts wander in the wrong direction.

All she can think to say is, “You’re doing the eye thing again.” Her index finger makes a circle in front of his face in the air, but he seems to be paying more attention to the green leather gloves he’s pulling off. They land on her dresser, and then his mask falls on top of it. “That’s it,” she continues to comment on his behavior. “It makes me feel like agreeing to anything, even buying a kangaroo. And that should mean something to you—kangaroos seriously creep me out. I don’t know why, they just—”

Abruptly, his mouth drops on hers, silencing her with a kiss, one hand firmly planted on her hip, the other at the back of her head. At first it feels like a normal one of their more charged moments together, but then it starts to become something more insistent with each press of his lips against hers.

The hand that isn’t on his bicep wanders aimlessly, and then she feels the strap of his quiver across his chest. Deciding that the bulky quiver on his back is only going to get in the way, both hands fix on the buckle in the center, and then it drops to the ground with a satisfying crash, followed shortly by the sound of arrows littering the floor. At first she thinks he might be pissed about the potential of breaking his arrows, but he only smiles before drawing her bottom lip into his mouth.

She’s so occupied with the better-than-amazing kiss that she barely notices that Oliver removes the elastic in her hair—primarily because he also chooses the same moment to push her back up against the wall. (And, wow, how did he manage to _do_ that without her noticing?) It makes her gasp into his mouth in surprise, which turns into a strangled cry when his fingers start trailing from her hip down her leg. _This_ is definitely new, she realizes, and it leaves a clear message: Oliver is embracing the you-don’t-have-to-stop thing tonight.

That is _perfectly_ okay with her.

Felicity decides to celebrate it by unzipping Oliver’s jacket and sliding it off his shoulders, though he seems reluctant to let go of her long enough to do so. While one hand carefully explores his chest, the other ends up cupping his face. Somehow her fingers just _accidentally_ find that line of Chinese calligraphy, and it causes him to make a strangled sound low in his throat that she thinks she’ll probably never get tired of hearing. In the spirit of that discovery, she does it again.

This time, instead of a stifled moan, his hand squeezes around the lower part of her thigh and then her leg is over his hip. His mouth moves off of hers to press against the underside of her jaw before trailing a line down her neck. Stopping only long enough to wrap her arms around his neck for support, Felicity drapes her other leg around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back. Her shoes drop with a _thud_ against floor.

Vaguely, she remembers which shoes they are, and, without permission, the words leave her mouth breathlessly: “When you take me to bed, you better not step on my panda flats.” Only then does it dawn on her exactly what the rest of the night (well, morning now, really—the sun is starting to shine) is going to entail.

Oliver stops kissing her neck to chuckle so lightly that she feels it more than she hears it. “I really hope that you aren’t thinking about your shoes right now,” he mutters dryly, the words muffled as he says them into her skin.

“What _should_ I be thinking about?” Felicity is surprised to hear herself reply, her voice breathless in anticipation around the edges. This is new—flirting in the bedroom is definitely new and completely unintended. She bites her lip to prevent any other errant thoughts from slipping out, but doesn’t try to fix it for fear of making it worse.

One of his hands moves from supporting her to her thigh, sliding up the outside of her thigh at a tauntingly slow pace. It serves to remind her how far the black pencil skirt has ridden up, but the thought is pushed away when his hand slips under it.

Finally, he looks at her, his eyes intense as usual but darker than ever. It’s almost ridiculous how much desire is radiating in his expression—almost unbelievable that _Oliver Queen_ would ever be interested in _her_ the way he is right now. “You should be thinking about how much I love you,” he answers simply.

The declaration makes the breath leave her in an entirely different way. It’s said so easily, as if it’s the least complicated thing in the world, as if she's just a girl and he's just a guy—a guy who hasn't been in the spotlight as both the heir to a billion-dollar fortune and the vigilante who protects the city. She isn't likely to forget either of those facts; especially the latter, seeing as how he's still in the green leather pants that she is _very much_ looking forward to seeing on the floor, and that a quiver and a collection of arrows are scattered across her floor at the present.

This time she’s the one to start the rough, desperate kiss, and somehow he manages to return it while walking her to the bed. Then her back is on the mattress, and Oliver is hovering above her, breaking the kiss. “And the only thing I want you to think about now is _me_ ," he continues, something demanding and possessive in his tone as his eyes meet hers. Felicity is incredibly surprised to find that, while possessive behavior typically irritates her, she rather likes it right now. "Because the only thing I'm thinking about is _you_."

“I think I can manage that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlists:
> 
> “Wings” - Jeff Williams feat. Casey Lee Williams  
> “Hallelujah” - Paramore  
> “Maybe” - Sick Puppies  
> “Wretched and Divine” - Black Veil Brides
> 
> And for the bonus scene, which deserves its own playlist:  
> "I Burn (Yellow Trailer)" - Jeff Williams feat. Casey Lee Williams  
> “Tell Me You Love Me” - Neon Trees  
> "Gold" - Jeff Williams feat. Casey Lee Williams  
> “Baby Don’t Stop Now” - Anja


	46. Extraction of Compressed Files

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Maureen McGovern once sang, there's got to be a morning after. Bad grammar aside, this is it--with a little plot sprinkled on top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/08XH6di8wrM66JaTynOZLU).
> 
> Since my brain is half-dead from work, I have no notes about the making of this chapter. Sorry. I haven't really been responding to comments the way I should have, either; I'm working five days a week now _and_ I've been loaded up with homework from my class. So, to all of you I didn't respond to this time, I'm very sorry about that and I truly appreciate your comments. Time just wasn't on my side. To those of you who are nice enough to comment even knowing what a loser I am at responding, I thank you so much. To those of you who are quietly reading along, thank you so much. :)
> 
>  **Important note:** This chapter contains spoilers for flashback scenes in Season 3. What you do with that information is completely up to you. :)
> 
>  **Housekeeping note:** As a reward for your two weeks of patience for this chapter, I started a Spotify account for chapter playlists. Now, at the top line of the beginning notes on every chapter, you'll see a link to the Spotify for that chapter. This is now in place for all of my works with playlists, if you're interesting in going through all of them. ;)

Cold air awakens Felicity, biting at her exposed back. She frowns at that fact, then realizes she isn't dressed, but then she feels something shift underneath her curled leg. It takes her an even longer moment to realize she's half-draped across Oliver’s chest while he lies on his back. Judging by the place her leg is haphazardly thrown over his hips and the bare skin that meets it, he's just as lacking in the clothing department as she is.

The implications of that observation bring it flooding back in vivid detail, and her eyes fly open. Though her vision is blurry because her glasses are on the nightstand, she can squint and determine the hazy outline of the black pencil skirt she had worn before in the floor of the closet. Her bra is still casually draped across one corner of the bed, and her panda flats and blouse are missing from the fray. With a hazy smile, Felicity wonders absently if they decided to run away to take cover.

"Fray" seems to be the operative word, she decides, with the way Oliver's Arrow gear is thrown around the room. It looks like a war zone with the scattered mess of arrows covering the floor in front of the doorway, the quiver dropped and empty in the middle of the chaos. The green jacket and its infamous hood are practically in the hallway—she doesn't remember throwing that—while the leather pants are across the room, carelessly caught on the doorknob on the closet door halfway across the room. She can only see one of his boots, the other suspiciously absent. Then she realizes his mask and gloves aren't on the dresser where he placed them.

They must have ended up in the floor when she ended up on top of the dresser.

Turning to the nightstand in hopes of finding her glasses, she decides against it when she sees Oliver's sleeping form. There's nothing she can do but fix on it; Felicity rarely gets the opportunity to watch him sleep, and something about it is utterly fascinating to her. With the arm underneath her curling to drop his hand on her hip and his unclouded expression, he looks perfectly at peace, for once seeming like the world didn't force him to endure pure agony for the last five years. She had thought she'd watched him relax in sleep before, but something about this seems different. The crease between his brows—the one that seems to be in place almost perpetually—is gone, and something about the curve of his mouth makes her think he might be about to smile. Felicity thinks she might be getting a flashback of the old Oliver—the man he'd been before that boat went down.

Well, a variation on who that old Oliver could have been, if he'd embraced adulthood and responsibility.

Felicity's eyes drop to the Bratva insignia on his left pectoral, in prominent display. Though she knows she'll never ask, part of her wonders how many of his scars came from whatever he did to earn that mark. With hesitant fingers, she moves her hand from his stomach to trace the intricate lines of the design. It used to bother her what kind of violence that black ink represented—both violence he had endured and inflicted—but now she studies with indifference, acceptance. Her fingers still when the reason why hits her hard: she loves him.

While in and of itself that isn't particularly a surprise, it's the meaning behind those words. Felicity has long since been in love with Oliver, the person he is when he's with the people that know the truth. But now she's learning that it doesn't just extend to one aspect of the dichotomy that he is. She loves _every_ side of him—Oliver Queen, the prodigal son; the Arrow, the hero who protects the city; and even the Vigilante, the avenging angel who made Starling City's criminals pay in blood. For so long, she's struggled to accept that all of personas could survive in one person, but now she understands that they're just different sides of one, singular whole—and she loves them all.

"I thought that I'd lost you when you figured that out," Oliver offers quietly, his voice raspy as a residue of sleep. Felicity's eyes immediately flick upward to his, but his attention is completely focused on her hand over his heart. "That reminds me that I've done things—traded away pieces of my soul to stay alive." A bitter chuckle escapes him. "Sometimes I wondered if living was worth the price I paid for it." He leans down to kiss her hair. “But then I saw you that first time, and it made it a little more bearable.”

The candor there startles Felicity, and she realizes this is Oliver Queen trying to open up and let her in—starting with something easier to talk about than the island. "By the time I figured it out," she answers slowly, "I already knew you, Oliver. That didn't change the way I saw you—it helped me _understand_ you." She finds herself tracing the lines of the tattoo again. "When I saw you that first time," she starts with a chuckle, waving to the Arrow gear strewn all over the room, "in all of that gear, my first question was what would make you try to do this.” She flattens her hand over his heart. “This told me why."

He doesn't answer her immediately or directly, musing quietly, "I wasn't on the island the entire time I was gone, Felicity." Startled by the turn of the conversation and the revelation itself, she lifts her head from his chest to look at Oliver, reaching across him to the nightstand for her glasses. As she slides them on her face, he continues, "The first two years were on the island, but I spent a year in Hong Kong doing missions for ARGUS." He looks away for a moment. "One of them brought us back to Starling City."

Questions immediately spring to Felicity's mind, but she decides that asking questions would be the worst thing she could do for Oliver right now. After all, if he wanted someone to ask questions, he would have told his family this information. So she bottles them up and replies slowly, "That must have been agony—to be so close to your family and not be able to see them."

"I did see them," he corrects. "They didn't know I was there, but I watched my sister meet a kid at my father's gravestone—at _my_ gravestone—and buy drugs. She thought I was a horrible brother, and the worst part was that she was right." Finally he looks at her again. "In some ways, seeing my family that way was worse than not seeing them at all."

He changes topics abruptly, as if that wound is still to raw to talk about. "The reason my ARGUS handler brought us back to Starling was because the data they needed was at Queen Consolidated, and I knew the layout of the building and I could access the servers."

The realization hits Felicity more violently than any lightning bolt or battering ram ever could. "About three years ago," she finds herself stating slowly, "we had a glitch in the system. Mr. Steele asked me to investigate because Mrs. Queen thought some things on her desk were moved around, and she wanted to make sure no one accessed her computer. I remember it because the biometric scanner recorded a result that didn't make sense—said that Oliver Queen had accessed the computer." She feels her brow furrow. "But it wasn't a glitch, was it? That was you."

It surprises her when he smiles; it honestly surprises her that Oliver still finds reasons to, if that small look at his past is any indication. "That was me," he affirms. "We thought that no one would bother to remove my access, and it worked." Something similar to a chuckle leaves his throat, but Felicity can't understand what there is to laugh about. "I was distracted by some of my father's old files, and I almost got caught by someone who was working late that night."

Felicity can't help but lean forward, curious, but she doesn't dare interrupt him now when it's clear he's in the mood to share. Oliver pauses for a long moment, as though he wants her to ask, but when she doesn't, he continues, "She was…" Words seem to escape him for a moment before he finishes, "Unforgettable—from the lipstick, to the glasses, to the pandas on her shoes."

When it dawns on her, Felicity's throat tightens. The day in question comes rushing back to her in vivid detail—it was the first time she ever walked into the CEO's office, and she had looked at the photograph of Oliver and his father and… She groans. "I called you cute," she remembers, and her face is already heating with embarrassment. "I comment on a photo of a dead man, and somehow he still manages to hear me and make me feel like an idiot." She shakes her head. "Typical."

Oliver's soft laugh answers, and Felicity decides that she _has_ to make him laugh more often; it's such a beautiful sound. "For three years, I just tried to stay alive, and the part of me that knew how to enjoy life died along the way. Everyone was either a target or an asset, a number instead of a name. I had to in order to do what they asked of me." He takes her face between his hands, and the small, warm smile on his face makes her breath catch for a moment. "And you were the first person I saw as a human being. You weren't a number or a target—you were the girl who called me cute and was annoyed because she spoke to herself."

In a very rare turn of events, Felicity finds herself speechless. The only thing she can think to do is place her hands on his shoulders, using them as leverage to pull herself up to kiss him. It's surprisingly chaste considering their state of undress, but she isn't interested in soft and sweet. With everything going on in their lives, she knows that it might be a while before they have an opportunity like this again. The day is too far gone to make the trip to Central City, and Felicity plans to use that fact to her advantage while she can.

Because, as she learned in detail earlier, being in bed with Oliver is too tempting to pass up.

Not seeming to mind her enthusiasm, he responds in kind, his hand around her waist moving as his other hand joins it. He grips her hips tightly for a moment, but then, in one swift moment, he’s on top of her. Felicity can feel him smile against her mouth when she gasps in surprise, and she finds a way to make him groan in return—one that’s a little less innocent than his. Judging by the way his hand trails away from her hip, he has some sort of revenge in mind, but it never comes.

Felicity groans in irritation when the doorbell sounds, and Oliver immediately tenses, relaxing only enough to go out of high alert. But she can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s not as relaxed as he was only moments before. “I’m going to get that damn doorbell disconnected,” she practically growls, her voice taking on an odd quality. It causes Oliver to duck his head against her collarbone, chuckling against it as the last of the tautness leaving him completely.

Sighing, she pushes against his chest halfheartedly, and Oliver rolls off of her in clear understanding of the gesture. “Go get rid of them,” he demands in a low, hoarse tone that makes her mouth go dry—the desire in his voice is enough to make her breath catch. “I’ll wait here.”

Somehow managing to pull herself out of bed even though her muscles feel like jelly, Felicity manages to pull on a pair of pajamas from her drawer. “Just a minute,” she calls out, and then turns to Oliver. “It’s probably my neighbor—her cat keeps getting out. Just give me a moment, and then I’ll be back.”

He lets her go with a sigh, and she knows that if she looks back, she’ll ignore the doorbell altogether at the sight of him lying across her bed. Saphira is already waiting at the door by the time she arrives to it, and the little dog’s wagging tail makes her think it isn’t her neighbor. A look through the peephole confirms her suspicions, and she runs back to her room immediately.

“It’s Roy,” Felicity says quietly, and Oliver lifts his head from the pillow to look at her, brows furrowing together. “What do you want to do?” She waves a hand. “I mean, I know you don’t want to tell him yet, but I don’t think you can leave in your Arrow gear.” She glances at the clock. “It’s the middle of the day. And I can’t talk to Roy about the Canary if he’s talking to Oliver Queen.” She groans. “And now _I’m_ talking about you as two different people.”

A laugh escapes Oliver as he rises to his feet, stopping long enough to grab the bag from her closet that he left the last time he stayed the night. “Do you mind if I use your shower?” he asks.

Felicity actually laughs at that; as if she’d mind him in her shower after everything else that’s happened. “Use the in the guest bedroom, since you can’t see it from the hallway,” she instructs. “That part of the hallway isn’t visible from the living room.”

As soon as he’s out of sight, Felicity goes to the door, picking up Roy’s cell phone from the table before throwing it open. “Blondie,” he starts gravely before she has a chance to speak, “you need to find somewhere else to stay for a while. I ran into the Canary last night and—”

“And then she ran into me,” Felicity finishes for him. Then she holds up his cell phone, and Roy takes it with an incredulous look on his face, gaping slightly. “She’s actually really nice. She thinks I'm cute, which I'm electing to take as a compliment."

"What happened to your hair?" Roy blurts finally, and she turns to the mirror in the entranceway, groaning. Now she understands why he's been gaping at her all morning; it's sticking up wildly in places, tousled in a way that does _not_ look flattering, especially with the dark circles under her too-bright eyes. Her first thought is that sex hair is, apparently, a thing.

Her second is that she's going to murder Oliver for not saying anything to her about it.

"I've had _maybe_ four hours of sleep in the past thirty-six hours," she responds irritably as she waves him into her apartment, "and I could snap at any minute. Today is _not_ a good day to push your luck, Roy." She studies him for a moment, looking for signs of any new wounds. The only one she sees is the cut on his cheek, but that's several days old now, and it looks like it's healing nicely. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Roy flops down on Oliver's end of the couch, and she takes the opposite end. He scoffs as he answers, "Only my pride. I was trying to find the other girl—her name is Sin, by the way—and she ran as soon as she saw me. I followed her into an abandoned house, and I wake up on the floor with the Canary standing over me." He groans. "She kicked my ass."

Felicity rolls her eyes at the display of male ego. "She's the Canary," she replies dryly, crossing her arms. "She kicks a lot of guys' asses, not just yours. You should have thanked her for the opportunity."

He doesn't even bother to respond to that. "She knocked me out," he barrels on, "but as soon as I woke up and realized she took my phone, I ran for Verdant. I knocked on the door, but no one would answer." He shrugs. "I thought you might have gone home, so I came here."

"Thanks for the warning," Felicity says, "but she's a little faster than you are. It's like she mastered the art of Blitzkrieg or something. I was never in any danger, though—I'm a magnet for vigilantes who don't want to kill me."

Suddenly Roy's eyes go wide, and when Felicity follows his gaze to the hallway, she turns crimson. Saphira happily trots into the living room with her prize, dragging Oliver's Arrow jacket by the hood. Before Felicity can manage a coherent statement, the little dog pulls it into her bed, making a show of wadding it up to her liking before lying on it.

Then she realizes that the quiver and the pile of arrows are on display after Saphira barged through the bedroom door. Felicity also finds her blouse that was missing—strewn out into the hallway in a way that doesn't take Columbo to figure out what happened last night. (Well, this morning, technically.)

"Yeah, I can kind of see that," Roy deadpans with wide eyes and eyebrows that nearly meet his hairline. His expression is otherwise completely stoic, and Felicity can't help but give him credit for wisely choosing not to comment on it. "I'm glad she didn't kill you, Blondie." He delivers the line in the same tone, but she can see he means it despite how flippant he sounds.

"Don't get all mushy on me now, Harper," she teases with a smile. "We've made it through a lot without the ooey-gooey stuff, but if you start being sweet, I might actually have to hug you." She motions between them. "And I don't think either of us want _that_. God knows I don't."

He actually cracks a smile at that. "Then I better leave now before we both do something we regret." Then he hesitates. "I know I've done everything I can for the Arrow, but don't be a stranger. You're not as much of a stuck-up bookworm as I remember, Blondie."

"Same goes for you, Roy," she replies with a genuine smile. Against her better judgment, she's found herself liking the kid—and his loyalty. "We don't just kick people out of the lair whenever we're done with them, you know. And you've impressed the Arrow, so I think he's going to ask you to help when he needs someone to be his eyes and ears." He nods once, and then Felicity rises to lock her door after he leaves.

She turns back to Saphira with a frown. "You are the _worst_ gossip ever—I'm never trusting you with another secret again."

 

* * *

 

Barry hears Cisco's flirt voice from the hallway, and he can't help but shake his head with a smile as he uses the pipetter to transfer serum for analysis. He has no idea who the poor girl is this time, but Cisco enjoys being a flirt with any girl who can talk tech.

Even Caitlin, her attention buried in a genetics study on her computer screen, takes notice when he walks in. "Laying it on a bit thick today, Cisco?" she calls with a smile, and Barry can't help but chuckle at the way she delivers such a dry line in a sweet voice.

"It's easy for you to judge when you're engaged to Ronnie," Cisco retorts cheerfully, knowing that she doesn't mean any offense, that it's just harmless ribbing between friends. "But the rest of us actually have to flirt to get a date."

"Well, if that's your ulterior motive," answers a ridiculously familiar voice that makes Barry break out into a smile immediately, "you're going to be disappointed. I'm very happy with my current boyfriend, and the last I heard, I think he's pretty happy with me, too." She walks over to Barry with a smile on her face. "Don't take this as an invitation to start speaking science geek to me, but how is that going?"

He leans over to kiss her cheek, then can't resist the dig: "I'm not going to get a visit from a guy in green because of that, am I?" She rolls her eyes, and Barry continues, "It's good to see you, Sherly. It's been a while, and I was starting to worry about you." The last time he had spoken to her, she thought that Detective Lance was going to try to break into the Arrow's base, and before that it was the Arrow's ex attacking her.

Sometimes Barry wonders if she realizes how… _comic book_ her life has become.

"I live in Starling City, Watson," she replies dryly. "There's always something exciting happening there—you know that. But everything seems to have slowed down, if you exclude the new resurgence of Vertigo."

Cisco clears his throat rather noisily, and Barry turns to realize both he and Caitlin are staring at Barry and Felicity expectantly. "Oh, right, sorry!" Because he has a test tube in one hand and a pipette in the other, he motions with his right, the pipette flying between them. "Sherly, this is Cisco Ramon, one of our resident engineering geniuses, and Dr. Caitlin Snow, who is an actual medical doctor, unlike me." Then he motions back to Felicity. "Caitlin, Cisco, this is Felicity Smoak, my foster sister. She's visiting from Starling City."

Though it isn't something he talks about easily, Barry has been working with Caitlin and Cisco—even his boss, Dr. Wells—long enough that they all know how and why he ended up in foster care. Felicity is more tight-lipped about her past, he knows, but, by mentioning that, it lets her know that the two people in front of them are more than just colleagues—they're friends.

Of course Cisco picks up on that immediately. "Oh, that makes so much sense!" he exclaims, causing all of them to smile at the wild hand gestures that accompany it. "Barry was the first one to hear about the hood guy—it was because of you that he knew." He crosses his arms, stepping closer with a poorly contained smile. "Have you ever met him?"

Caitlin rolls her eyes, turning back to her work. "Just because she's from Starling City doesn't mean she knows anything about the Vigilante," she remarks dryly. Barry exchanges a look with his sister at that; they both know Felicity probably knows more about the Vigilante than anyone else in the city.

Her attention flicks over to Barry with a wry smile, before answering slowly, "I met him once. My friend invited me to a charity gala a few months ago, and some guy torched the place. I was trapped in the building, but the Vigilante pulled me out."

Before anyone can ask her any more questions, Barry pulls her toward his office with an excuse that he wants to see her for a few minutes before she leaves. "You said over the phone that you had something from the Arrow?" Honestly, he doesn't know how she handles the excitement; every time she brings something in, Barry likes the idea of helping the Arrow catch some dangerous criminal.

She gives him her best Barry-you-are-an-adorable-idiot smile before pulling a bag of green-and-purple capsules out of her purse. "These are Vertigo," she starts seriously, "so be careful with them. I need to know the chemical composition—if there's anything we can use to trace them to the Count." She worries her lip for a moment. "The last time I had you run analysis for me was Vertigo, too, but this time I won't be there to dispose of the evidence. The incinerator is your friend." Then she rises quickly from her seat. "I have to go—the Arrow needs me back in Starling as soon as possible, and Oliver is waiting in the car."

Barry can't help the incredulity in his voice. "Oliver is with you?" he asks for the sake of clarification, following her out of the office to ask. Then he can't help but wonder what the Arrow thinks of this development. "Why didn't he come in?"

"He doesn't like it when people gawk at him," she answers with a shrug. "I told him I was taking the train to Central City, and he was coming up here to see about the holdings. So he said I could go with him." A smile tugs the corners of her lips upward for a brief moment. "I don't think he likes trains. Or boats, but that's more understandable."

Though he knows Felicity is one of the smartest people he's ever met, Barry can't help the trepidation that comes with that turn of events. Oliver Queen may not be the man he was five years ago, but he could also be an entirely different type of trouble for one Felicity Smoak. After all, she can't really advertise the fact she's in a relationship around Starling. "I hope you know what you're doing, Sherly," he replies slowly. "I think he's a little in love with you—understandably—but I also think your boyfriend is the jealous type." The way he'd kissed her that night of the Humanitarian Awards Banquet proved that to Barry.

She waves a hand flippantly. "I wouldn't worry too much about my boyfriend being jealous of Oliver."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "I Belong to You" - Lenny Kravitz  
> "No One" - Alicia Keys  
> "Darkest Part" - Red  
> “Bound to You” - Christina Aguilera  
> "Knives and Pens (Acoustic)" - Black Veil Brides  
> "Still Young" - Neon Trees


	47. Data Migration to New Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caution: the word "hidey-hole" is used excessively in this chapter. Read at your own risk. And no, this isn't an AU where Oliver is a thief who hoards his treasures like squirrels hoard acorns--but wouldn't _that_ be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't forget about this update--I've just spent all morning at the optometrist's office. :) Sorry about that.
> 
> I think this might be one of those chapters you later look back upon and say with conviction, "This is a game-changer." I'll let you be the judge, though. I'd certainly always love to hear what you think, but, if not, I thank you very kindly for just reading. :)

Felicity sighs as she drums her fingers against Oliver's desk, her head falling on the opposite hand. With Lance threatening the search warrant, the lair is still in careful disarray to prevent him from finding anything that would expose the basement as the Arrow's base. Even if they _did_ have the ability to move on information, the sample she gave Barry is still being analyzed. Fortunately, though, there have been no alerts for names in the Book, so she had time to work on some of the tech for the team earlier in the night. But she finished that hours ago.

There had been an incident two nights ago after they had returned from Central City; a man had died because of his use of Vertigo. Oliver had tried to save him, but it had been too late. Felicity could be analyzing the coroner's report, but SCPD hadn't bothered to do an autopsy yet.

She sighs again, but this time the sound is louder. "Doing that won't make work appear," Diggle comments with a smile from the other side of the desk. Of course, Felicity notes sourly, it's easy for _him_ to say; _he_ has something to do, casually perusing a copy of the information she found on Deadshot a week ago—one littered with information he probably shouldn't have.

"If I don't find something to do soon, Digg," Felicity replies, "I'm going to collapse from boredom. I'm a computer technician—I'm only happy when I have something to keep my hands busy." She cringes at the accidental innuendo. "Something computer-related," she clarifies quickly, making him snort. "I'd like to make sure the tech goes into Oliver's suit the way it needs to, but all of his Arrow gear is currently stuffed into the brand-new hidey-hole in my closet that he put in last night." She shakes her head. "Who the hell has a hidey-hole in their _closet_ , Digg?"

He actually chuckles aloud at that, and Felicity considers it a small victory in an otherwise frustrating night. "You, apparently," he answers dryly with a smile, and Felicity can't see the humor in the situation. But, then again, if Oliver had shown up at _his_ apartment with a copy of the blueprints and asking to stash his stuff for a few days, it probably wouldn't seem as funny to Digg, either. She expected him to stuff it under her bed, not create an entirely new hiding place. Still, Felicity didn't question his logic.

Instead, she just files it into the list of odd Oliver behaviors that probably have everything to do with the last five years of his life.

Changing the subject, Felicity motions to the file folder in his hands. "Are you sure you don't want to talk to Oliver about this whole Deadshot thing?" she can't help but ask. "I won't say anything if you don't want me to, but it's one of those two-heads-are-better-than-one things. I know he would help you catch this guy."

Diggle is already shaking his head by the time Felicity finishes. "He has his own personal vendettas to deal with," comes the firm reply. "The Count is personal for Oliver—Vertigo nearly earned Thea some jail time, and then when Oliver tried to go after him, he ended up nearly overdosing on the stuff. He doesn't need to fight my demons right now, too."

It's Felicity's turn to disagree with his statement, frowning. "That's the thing about friends, Digg," she tries to explain. "He doesn't need to, but he _would_ —without hesitation—because he would _want_ to." When his expression doesn't change, she sighs. "Just promise me you'll think about involving Oliver. I'm not sure what he could do to help, but he would be there. So would I."

He gives her another of those silent almost-chuckles in response. "Yeah, I kind of get the feeling that you two are a package deal these days," he comments with smile. "You seem happy—both of you." He shakes his head. "And to think, I prepared that speech about what I'd do if he hurt you for nothing."

About the same time Felicity laughs, a voice says from the doorway, "Like Ollie would hurt her." Tommy breaks into a wide smile, giving Felicity a cheesy wink as he sits down at the other end of the desk, across from where she sits in Oliver's chair. "I don't know how you did it, but he's…" He lounges across the chair as he thinks of the word, sinking into the cushioned back. "Well, if I was the kind of guy to use words like 'smitten,' I'd call him smitten. But he seemed a little lost when he got back from the island, and now he seems a little more like the old Ollie. But better." He looks around. "Speaking of which, where _is_ our favorite vigilante?"

The opportunity is there, and she can't resist the opportunity to voice her irritation that is mostly amusement at this point. "Probably making a hidey-hole in someone's closet," she grumbles good-naturedly, causing Tommy's eyebrows to knit together. Diggle, on the other hand, actually laughs.

Though his mouth opens to ask the question, Tommy is cut off by his best friend's arrival. Felicity doesn't have to look to notice the bag of food from Big Belly Burger; it smells amazing. She's not sorry when she cuts Tommy off, noticing the clear plastic cup in Oliver's other hand—the one brimming with whipped cream. "I forgive you everything," she declares. "And if that's chocolate, I might actually propose."

Something resembling panic enters his eyes for a moment—something she mirrors because _no way_ are either of them ready for that sort of commitment—but then he relaxes as he realizes it's a joke. He places it on the table in front of her before quipping with a smile, "You don't have to get down on one knee." Then he winks as he places the rest of her order in front of her. He delivers a burger each to Tommy and Digg, hoisting himself onto one corner of the desk and taking his own food.

Tommy snorts. "Yeah, like _you're_ the kind of guy to settle down, Ollie," he comments dryly. "No offense, buddy, but I can't exactly see you doing the whole two-car-garage, white-picket-fence thing."

Even though she decides not to comment on it, Felicity doesn't think that's fair. Tommy isn't that type, either, and there isn't just _one_ version of that elusive happy ending. So, instead of bringing it up, she just makes a noise of distaste. "I never really understood the thing about white picket fences," she muses as she sips her milkshake. "They're too short to keep anything out, no one usually puts a gate on them, and they're not very private. It's like buying sheer curtains for your bedroom windows—completely pointless."

Tommy very nearly spits soda across the room, and both Oliver and Diggle break into grins. "Maybe I'm not that kind of man," Oliver agrees slowly, turning to Felicity with very intense eyes, "but no one here expects me to be."

Felicity can't help but agree with that. She isn't blind to any of the things Oliver is, and she certainly isn't under any illusions about the things he isn't. Of course he has shortcomings—so does she; they're both human, after all—but she still wouldn't change anything about him. She isn't in love with an idea of him, but with the man he is.

And, really, she never liked the idea of white picket fences and two-car garages, either.

Before she can give voice to that last thought, Tommy chuckles through bites of his burger. "So, you two have any plans for tonight?" He waves a hand before taking a drink of his soda. "I mean, the whole vigilante thing, not whatever you two do after you go back to Felicity's place—I don't need to know about that."

After shooting him a withering look, Oliver responds, "I contacted the Canary last night, and she wants to meet at midnight. There's an old clock tower at the East end of the Glades that we're using as a rendezvous point, and we're going to talk about teaming up for a few missions." He nods toward Felicity. "It's a good idea, and Felicity thought it would give us more backup for times when Digg is stretched thin." Something in his tone indicates that he knows what Diggle is up to, why he's been absent recently with the Deadshot thing, but he also makes it clear he's not going to pry.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but then stops. Felicity watches the telltale sign of Oliver tensing, indicating traffic back to the office. Most of the employees don't come back this far into the club, and Oliver apparently comes to the same conclusion, rising to his feet to stand with his hand on the back of Felicity's chair.

Predictably, Lance is the one who opens the door, dropping an official-looking piece of paper on the desk. "That's a warrant to search these premises," Lance informs without preamble, but he doesn't look particularly thrilled about the idea. He turns toward Tommy. "Laurel isn't happy about this, but, like I told you, I have to go where this investigation leads." He looks at Oliver. "And you bribed a city inspector to ignore the basement. There will be a fine for that—not that it means anything to _you_."

Clearly the lack of animosity only extends to Tommy, and Felicity can feel her eyes narrow at Lance's words. She opens her mouth to speak, but Oliver's hand drops to her shoulder, shaking his head ever so slightly. It leaves a sour taste in her mouth, but she allows Oliver to have his way just this once.

Lance clearly catches the action, studying them with the deductive eyes of an outstanding detective. "I want this place opened from top to bottom," he demands, "and I want to see all of it—including the basement." The dismissal is clear in his tone, and they all filter out one by one, Tommy and Digg first. Oliver lets Felicity go before him, placing a hand on the small of her back.

The detective stops her with a hand across the doorway. "I'd like to speak to you, Miss Smoak," he demands, and something about his expression resembles someone who accidentally picked up a lemon instead of an orange. She knows that look; it's the one he gets whenever he wants to talk to her about the Arrow. Even more dismissively, he lowers his hand as he adds, "You can go, Queen."

The man in question hesitates, looking at Felicity for confirmation. "It's fine," she assures him. With a loaded almost-smile, she adds, "I haven't done anything illegal recently—I'll be back." His expression is impassive enough, but his eyes sparkle like they do when he smiles, and she can hear Lance snort in disbelief behind her. Oliver steps out with a nod, and, after Lance has pulled the door shut, she asks, "What can I do for you today, Detective?"

He only fixes her with a confused frown, as though he's trying to work out a complicated math problem in his head. "You and Queen look awfully cozy," he comments. In a different tone, one more accusing, he continues, "I thought you and the Arrow were… close."

Felicity can't answer any part of that question without sending both Oliver and herself to jail, so she decides a misdirect is in order. "Oliver is my friend, Detective," she answers as she crosses her arms, surprised to find her tone rather hard. "And I don't think you asked to speak to me about Oliver Queen." Well, actually, he probably did—but Lance doesn't know that.

With a sigh that says he's both overworked and underpaid, Lance pulls a file folder out of his jacket, handing it to her. "I haven't gotten a call on the Arrow in a few nights, so I thought he might be stuck on the case. This is the coroner's report on that overdose two nights ago." Felicity opens it, studying the hard copy with a frown; her scanner is downstairs in the mayhem, and she doesn't do paper copies anymore. "I thought maybe you could scrounge up something we haven't—or _can't_ —look into."

"This could be useful, Detective," she comments. "I might be able to do something with this, but I'm waiting on some other things before anything can come of it." Then something dawns on her, something very important. "You could be reprimanded or demoted for this, Detective."

He shrugs, acting blasé about very critical things. "The Count needs to be stopped, Miss Smoak," he answers. "The Arrow was the one who stopped him the last time, not us. I figure he's the best man for the job this time, too. I want the son of a bitch off the streets, and, unlike my colleagues, I'm not very picky about how it happens." He studies her meaningfully. "And now that he isn't dropping bodies, I don't feel as bad about aiding him—especially now that he's giving the criminals to us."

Felicity recognizes the change in Lance for what it is: a major alteration in his convictions shows he's put a lot of thought into the Arrow recently, that he's willing to give the vigilante a chance to prove himself. It's certainly a start, and she's grateful for it. Maybe, if they can just convince Detective Lance, they can convince the city, too. "Thank you, Detective," is all she can find it within her to say, knowing that it still isn't enough.

With a nod, he turns on his heel and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Oliver studies the inside of the clock tower with equal parts interest and trepidation, knowing that this is a horrible idea. Even the thought of meeting the Canary here makes something cold drop into his stomach, makes his muscles tense with adrenaline. He should be at home or with Felicity—or anywhere but here, really. Intuition tells him nothing good will come of this, that it will only cause him more trouble.

"I don't like this," he growls into the comm, synthesizer switched on. He already knows what the answer will be, but Oliver feels the need to voice his doubts now. A moment of I-told-you-so won't make him any less ambushed when this is over, but, then again, he won't have to say it. He'd like to think that it would make Felicity listen to him the next time he calls something a bad idea, but he would only be lying to himself.

She might actually be the only person in the world more stubborn than he is.

The sound of Felicity's eyes rolling can practically be heard over the link. "You _might_ have mentioned that—maybe once or _twelve times_ before you left tonight." She huffs, and it makes the corner of his mouth turn up; Oliver knows she's pouting, and even picturing her expression lifts his spirits. "And I'm kind of insulted—this was my idea. Do you honestly think I would lead you astray?"

"Of course not," he answers immediately, without needing time to think about his answer. It has nothing to do with her judgment, but instead with the lessons taught to him by the island. One of the things he learned very early on was that he should _not_ walk into a meet alone, especially not at a place he's unfamiliar with. This goes against every fiber of his being, everything he's been trained to do in the past five years. So she probably doesn't understand that every step he makes toward the damn clock tower is a mental fight against taking a step back.

It's only _because_ it's her idea that he's willing to try this.

She's silent after he answers, and Oliver focuses his concentration instead on trying to enter the building. The lock is already broken, so he heads directly for the stairs, taking them up to the top floor as quickly as he can without making any sound. He'd like to avoid alerting the Canary to his presence before he's ready to meet her. Though, if she's as good as they've said, she's probably going to know he's coming anyway.

For not the first time, he wonders about this woman—perhaps in the same way the rest of the population of Starling City wonders who the Arrow is. He wonders about her background, how the hell she managed to end up taking down criminals by night to protect the women of the city. He thinks it might have something to do with her own battered past, but that leaves so much open to interpretation. Where did she learn to fight? Why Starling City? Why now? There are so many questions about her, but there's only one way to receive his answers: to ask them of the Canary herself.

But that brings him back to his initial problem—the Canary insisted on her anonymity in this partnership. Knowing that, she would most likely be reluctant to probing questions—even from Felicity, whom she seems to like already. (Not that Oliver blames her; there's a spark of something in Felicity Smoak that draws out the best in him, and no doubt it draws the best in _all_ of them.) Her past is clearly her own, and Oliver will respect that, even as much as he'd like answers. But, for the moment, the Canary is doing more good in the city than harm, and so he sees that as an ally.

The long moment of silence, of being wrapped up in his own thoughts, allows Oliver to reach the top of the clock tower. Sure enough, the Canary is already there, facing the translucent face of the clock and away from him, as though watching the city play out beneath her. For once, the moniker seems appropriate; here, she seems like a bird in a cage, watching the world pass by with a certain lack of attachment to it. The staff he's heard so much about—a bo staff, he now realizes for the first time—rests on her shoulder, clearly ready to take action against anyone who makes the mistake of attacking her.

"I was wondering if you were going to show up," she comments to him without turning. Even through the voice modulator, there's something oddly familiar about her tone, her voice. He's certain he's met her before, though her voice doesn't resonate in his memory. "You didn't seem too thrilled about the idea over the phone."

"Someone convinced me this was the best course," he answers truthfully. "But walking into an unfamiliar building is still a risk." In his comm link, he registers Felicity grumbling something about him learning to let things go, but it doesn't quite register—except for the brief smile he allows himself at the sound of her voice. The thought of going on a mission without her voice in his ear is already unbearable to him, though he managed it for so long. Sometimes he gets lost in the darkness of his own mind, reflects on the side of human nature he's seen most in the last five years. Felicity's voice is what brings him back to the present, reminds him that the world isn't always so cruel.

"Probably the same person who convinced me," the Canary replies, a musing tone in her voice. Finally she turns, blue eyes piercing even in the low light. Her mask does well to hide her identity, but not well enough. Perhaps to someone who didn't know her, to someone who hadn't spent as much time with the woman in the mask as he had in the past.

The name leaves him in a whisper, one so low it doesn't even register with his synthesizer: "Sara?"

"What? Dead Sara?" Felicity asks immediately. "Sara _Lance?_ Sara who died on the boat?" Her questions only serve to remind him how much he's failed to share with Felicity; he's tried to be honest with her about the past five years, but there are some details—very _painful_ details—he's neglected to correct. That Sara Lance died on the boat is one of them.

One truth, however, remains in her question: he did think Sara was dead. He watched the tide wash her away from the _Amazo_ , watched her get swept under and away. Now he can only think he was a fool for believing that. Sara Lance had already died once that way, yet there she was, very much alive. It would only stand to reason that she could survive another wave.

Sara actually laughs in response to that. "I was hoping you wouldn't recognize me," she admits slowly. "That you'd think it couldn't be me because I'm supposed to be dead." She pulls off the mask, apparently seeing no reason to hide from him anymore. "When I came back, I heard the stories about the Vigilante running around Starling City—I knew it was you, Ollie."

Finally managing to find his voice, Oliver asks, "What about you? Your family still thinks you're dead." He'd thought about it a thousand times on the island, about the idea of coming back and letting his family survive on without him, watching in the shadows. But then when Amanda Waller had brought him back to Starling for that mission, he'd watched the state his family suffered in. They weren't better off without him; they were lost and still in mourning, qualities he still recognizes in Laurel and Mr. Lance even five years after they lost Sara.

She shakes her head immediately. "You can't tell them," she insists. "I got into some trouble after the island, Ollie. She saved me"—she offers no explanation into the pronoun, and he knows better than to ask—"and they taught me how to fight." The tone of her voice suggests they taught her how to do more than just fight—that she has blood on her hands the same way he does. Her next sentence confirms it: "I couldn't take it anymore, so I turned my back on them. If they thought my family knew, they _would_ kill them to get to me. No one knows I'm here, and I need to keep it that way."

Though he doesn't understand the trouble she's in, he _does_ understand the desperation in her voice, the fight to keep everyone she loves alive. "Meet me in two hours at Verdant," he replies. "I'll introduce you to the team, and we'll figure out what to do from there."

Something changes in her expression; surprise flickers through Sara's features before settling into a stony mask he recognizes because he's had to use it a few times himself. "You have a team?" The disbelief is clear, and he understands. After what happened to Slade, to Shado—even the betrayal Sara herself had brought when she used him to give information to Ivo—he had become more reluctant to let anyone in, had closed himself off. She understands the change of letting someone in.

He can feel the upward tilt of his mouth as he thinks about them—Felicity, Diggle, Tommy, even Roy. Truthfully, he responds the only way he knows how: "They're the best."


	48. New Program Installation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone establishes that they like Felicity. That's not really the plot of this chapter, but it makes for a nice, happy summary, so don't harsh the mellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/1WKXqamv3XbKmV1IDHd6rC).
> 
> Sorry, guys, it's been one hell of a morning. And, if I'm swearing, you know it's legit.
> 
> Anyhow, this chapter is hot off the presses--I finished it early this morning because I've had a rough week at work. I think I have that problem settled now, though, so I don't think the post day will be an issue. Sorry about that, though; this is the second time I've been a little late in as many weeks.
> 
> Again, apologies, and thank you very much for reading. :)

As soon as Oliver walks into the recently-restored lair, he braces himself the barrage of accusations and feelings of betrayal. He deserves it for neglecting to tell Felicity—to tell _his team_ , the people he depends upon and trusts more than anyone—the truth. He'd hoped that his denial of the island would prevent it from rearing its ugly head, but ignoring the past just makes it more difficult when it does appear.

His eyes immediately scan for his team, trying to get a read on them. Always acutely aware of her presence, Oliver locks onto Felicity first, watching her eyes flick upward at his entrance before turning back to her computer screen, her face set in an expression he can't read. It makes his stomach drop, makes him want to fight the Dark Archer to the point of near death again.

That would be easier than this.

John Diggle, however, isn't so difficult to read in this instance. He doesn't shy away from Oliver's presence, eyes meeting his with a pointed look that tells him just how badly he's screwed this up. He's the first to speak, rising from the desk he's leaning against to say, "I thought Sara died on the boat, Oliver. Last time I checked, dead people don't come back to Starling City and start vigilante careers." He snorts. "Except you, of course." Then the seriousness falls back into his expression. "You told everyone—told her _family_ —that she was dead."

Felicity rises to her feet. "And that's fine," she adds in a deadly calm tone, one that scares him more than the idea of listening to her yell obscenities at him. "We understand that you can't tell everyone your secrets." She waves a hand. "But we're your _partners_ , Oliver." There's an accusation in her tone, and Oliver thinks again that he doesn't deserve her; anyone else would already feel betrayed by the turn of events. Even now, though, she gives him the benefit of the doubt.

For not the first time, Oliver wonders what the world must look like through the eyes of Felicity Smoak.

"I thought I watched her die," Oliver answers Diggle, and it's the last thing he says to the soldier before turning to the woman he loves. "Sara was pulled under when the boat capsized," he says to her alone. He doesn't mind Digg hearing the tale, but it makes it easier for him if he explains himself to Felicity alone. "After I was on the island about a year, she showed up again." A deep, shaky breath leaves him. "At the time, she was working for a man named Anthony Ivo, a doctor who was torturing captives to find a cure for disease.

"By that time, I had a team," he continues slowly, keeping his voice and emotions detached. Dwelling on this could destroy him, so he tries to condense it to fact to prevent losing what little is left of his sanity. "Slade taught me how to survive, and Shado taught me how to use a bow. When Ivo started an assault on us, I was captured. I thought Sara was trying to help me escape, but she betrayed me for Slade and Shado's location." He has to close his eyes, to see it once in his head as a steady reminder of the mistakes he made with Slade—the ones he made again tonight. "Ivo killed Shado, and that ultimately led to Slade's death—and Sara's. Or so I thought."

He turns back to Diggle, steps back so he can face both of them at once. "The five years I was away were nothing but misery and torment. I didn't want the Lances to remember their daughter like that—didn't want Laurel to think of her sister being alive for another year after that when it didn't change anything that happened."

Something changes in Felicity's expression, and one hand comes up to touch her lips, her elbow resting in the palm of her opposite hand. "Don't you have _any_ happy stories, Oliver?" she asks him with a hint of a sad smile. No doubt her anger from before has left her, and he feels forgiven—even if he doesn't deserve her kindness.

"One." His answer is immediate and firm, turning the corners of his mouth up just by thinking about it. "And I've already told it to you." He watches the light of recognition dawn in her eyes, remembering the one instance when he told her anything of the five years he was gone. It earns him a genuine smile from her, and he breathes a deep sigh of relief.

Diggle seems to take more convincing. "And you think it's a good idea to bring her into this, even after she betrayed you?" he asks, playing devil's advocate. Digg's approach brings clarity to Oliver's decisions, helps him understand the risks to his actions. He doesn't know when he began to depend upon the other soldier's subtle counsel, but he appreciates it.

"Sara proved her loyalty in the end," he answers. "When I thought she died, she did that for me, Digg." He hesitates before adding, "And she's in trouble, running from someone." He looks at them. "Her family can't know she's alive—for their safety." He sighs before adding the final nail in the coffin: "Which means that Tommy can't know, either."

Felicity's eyebrows immediately knit together in confusion, and he knows she'll argue on that front. She doesn't like having to keep secrets, only tolerates it for Oliver's safety—and he knows that. In the short time they've known each other, Tommy and Felicity have become friends, and this order will put her in a complicated situation—in a series of complicated situations and balancing acts.

"Oliver, Tommy is your best friend," she reminds him. "Are you really comfortable _lying_ to him?" Before he can protest, she cuts him off, countering his argument before he can voice it. "Because you should realize that's what you'll be doing. You may not be lying to his face, but it's still a lie of omission." She steps forward, touching his arm. "Isn't that exactly what nearly destroyed your friendship a few weeks ago? You two are _finally_ back to normal—do you really want to risk it again?"

It's a fair question, a valid point, but Oliver knows the words to counteract me. "I'd rather lie to Tommy," he starts slowly, "than for him to lie to Laurel." Felicity's mouth falls into a small circle of surprise as the realization hits her. "Tommy and Laurel are happy together right now. If something happens to their relationship, I don't want it to be because of a secret I'm asking him to keep." He looks at both of them, hoping his expression shows that there will be no argument on this subject, that he won't change his mind at any cost. "I won't do that to my best friend."

Sighing in defeat, Felicity crosses her arms. "It's getting increasingly harder to keep up with secret identities and who knows about them," she states with a partial smile. "We should make a chart or something, but I think that would defeat the purpose of keeping secrets."

Unable to fight her contagious good humor, Oliver chuckles under his breath. Then the difficult question comes to him, and he asks it. "Felicity," he calls abruptly, and her head turns to the side, probably sensing the urgency in his tone. "Do you have a problem with this?" Her brow furrows, and he realizes that he'll have to make this situation painfully clear. "I know you thought I should work with the Canary, but do you mind if I work with Sara Lance?" The last thing he wants is trouble in the basement between the woman he loves and his ex-girlfriend, and this is Felicity's domain. Despite his need of another person on the team, he'd let her go if Felicity asked.

Except they both know she isn't going to ask. That's why he's asking for her.

It takes her a moment before she seems to understand his point, but a soft, breathy, " _Oh_ ," leaves her after a moment. Then she shakes her head with a smile. "I don't have a problem with the Canary," she assures him. Then she corrects, "Sara, I mean. I don't have a problem with Sara. I haven't really had much opportunity to get to know her, but I liked her when she broke into my apartment."

She stops abruptly before making a drastic change in subject. "You do realize that your breaking and entering spell is messing with my survival instincts, right? She broke into my apartment and I offered her takeout." She stops with a hand gesture. "Well, I thought she was _you_ , which is why I offered her takeout, but it still shows that I don't react to break-ins the way I should. Saphira didn't even growl or try to alert me—you're messing with her instincts, too."

Diggle grins as Oliver chuckles and she turns her pointer finger on the former soldier. "And _you_ aren't any better," she starts. "I remember a certain someone bringing me bugging devices to fix up by breaking into my apartment. You two need to learn how to open a door."

Footsteps on the floor are followed by the words, "Sounds like a difficult skill."

Felicity and Diggle both look up at Tommy, and Oliver takes advantage of the situation to wrap his arms around her middle. She leans back against him, resting her head on his chest, and he drops his lips to her neck. With everything happening since their return from Central City, he's barely had time to see her; his mother and Thea have become suspicious of his disappearances at night, and so the only time he's been able to see her is at Verdant.

No one speaks immediately, and Oliver thinks it should be him that breaks the news to Tommy. "The Canary is meeting us in the basement in an hour," he informs him, trying to keep his expression neutral. "I'd rather she didn't think you were involved in this." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself to lie to his best friend, but then he changes his mind at the last minute.

After reluctantly extricating himself from Felicity and walking up to Tommy, he continues, "There are also other reasons why I want to keep you away from her, but I think it would be easier for you not to know them." He hesitates. "I know I've given you reason to doubt me in the past few months, but can you still trust me?"

Tommy shakes his head with a smile. "Ollie, you're my best friend," he answers with a shrug. "I don't _like_ being left out of the loop, but at least this time I know you have a reason, and at least you aren't lying to my face." Then he hesitates. "You _do_ have a reason, right?"

"There's a method in Oliver's madness," Felicity chimes in. "The hard part is finding the method." Then she flashes him a taunting smile, raising a challenge that he would be more than willing to meet if they were both alone and in her apartment. Later, he decides. He'll definitely remember that later.

The sudden change in her expression makes him think it might just show on his face, because she quickly finds something to organize in the immaculate stacks of papers on the computer desk. It doesn't make him stop staring at her, and, when she looks back once, it's only to quickly turn away.

Tommy groans good-naturedly at Diggle, commenting loudly, "If I ever start acting like that with Laurel, I want you to shoot me with that sidearm you carry." He motions between Oliver and Felicity. "I don't see how you can stand it down here now that these two are together—the flirting is unbearable."

Diggle snorts. "If you think this is bad, you should have seen it _before_ they started dating."

 

* * *

 

Felicity looks up when Oliver bounds down the stairs, unsurprised when a pair of black boots follow. Sara is in full gear, just like Oliver, her bo staff draped over her shoulder in a warning. An I-will-kick-your-ass-so-approach-with-caution warning, in Felicity's opinion. She has no idea what sort of personality this woman has no information to go on, so she decides that's exactly what she's going to do.

Oliver waves a hand at both Felicity and Diggle before turning back to Sara. "You've already met Felicity," he starts, and even through the synthesizer, Felicity can hear the beginnings of his if-you-ever-do-that-again-it-will- _not_ -be-pleasant voice aimed at the break-in. It's sweet, but unnecessary; she has no qualms about making that point to the Canary herself. "But this is John Diggle." He doesn't offer an explanation of either's skills or background, instead just listing their names. "They're the only ones I trust."

Just as Felicity is about to bite her lip to prevent babbling anything, her phone goes off, that old familiar ringtone. She grabs her phone, answering the call with, "Please tell me you have something for me—I'm kind of in the middle of something here, and, while you know I love you, I don't have time to chit-chat."

"Well, if this is how you're going to greet me," Barry teases, "I'm going to stop calling you. I'm sorry you have a vigilante boyfriend that demands your attention, but I deserve a little respect, too." He sighs dramatically, the action all for show. "But, since you asked, the analysis says that it contains chlorpromazine. It's an anti-psychotic drug, but when administered to people who don't have need of them, it causes the same symptoms it cures. But to get enough of the drug to mass-manufacture this stuff, Sherly, he'd have to be working out of—"

Already knowing where this is going, she finishes his thought. "A mental institution," she breathes, then tilts the speaker away from her mouth. "Guys, the Count didn't leave the mental facility. He's using it to make Vertigo because he needs an anti-psychotic that he can only get there." She stops. "Which I think qualifies as irony—anti-psychotics in recreational drugs. Watson, I have to go now." She shakes her head before turning to Sara, even as Oliver starts to mobilize, grabbing his gear. Canary, how do you feel about a tryout?"

"Wait, what? What's going on?" Barry asks into the phone, his voice frantic and urgent. "Who's the Canary? You're my friend, Felicity—you owe it to me to tell me before I see it on the morning news. Is there another vigilante in Starling City?"

"I'll text you later," she answers absently before hanging up against Barry's protests. "Wait," she calls to Oliver and Sara, but he's the only one who stops. "I've been working on something for you—both of you, actually." She gropes at her desk to try and find the devices without looking down, but it doesn't quite work.

Finally, she holds up the first, clipping it next to his synthesizer, but on the outside of his jacket, smoothing it into place. "This is a wireless camera that links to my computers—so that I can see what you're seeing. I thought it might be nice to have a visual on you in case anything happened." Then Felicity holds up the smaller device. "And this is a GPS tracker to be on the safe side." He frowns, and she cuts him off before he can argue about it. "You go after a _lot_ of bad guys, and I want to have some precautions in case they decide to come after you first."

Offering her fiercest glare to punctuate the thought, she stares at him, daring him to argue with the logic in it. After a long moment of frowning back at her, he reluctantly nods, informing her with one look that it's a ridiculous, unnecessary precaution and that he's really only going along with it because it's her idea. He takes the GPS tracker from her hand before unzipping the jacket just far enough to reach his inside pocket, and Felicity pulls the zipper back up for him. "I know it's ridiculous," she states, finally turning their silent conversation into words, "but thank you for not saying it."

After pulling away from him, Felicity turns to Sara, holding out an identical set. "I have these if you want them," she offers carefully. Though she wants Sara to follow the same precautions as Oliver, Felicity also understands that Sara isn't really a part of the team and may not like the idea of feeling spied upon by people she barely knows.

To her surprise, Sara takes them from her hand. "Thank you," she says simply, clipping the camera to the outside of her jacket—except backwards. Felicity tries to make a flip-flop motion with her hand that the Canary doesn't seem to comprehend.

"Other way," Felicity explains, and Sara reverses the clip. Then she holds up the GPS tracker, which Sara shoves into place in a pocket of the utility belt around her waist. "If you don't want to feel like I'm spying on you or anything," Felicity offers carefully, "you can return them after you get back." Then she holds out an earpiece. "And this gives you a direct feed into our link system so that you can hear us and coordinate. I’ll be here in front of a computer screen, so if you have any questions about blueprints or facial recognition, I'm your girl." Felicity winces, trying to wave away the verbal gaffe with no success. "I mean, I'm not your girl. I wasn't making a pass at you."

Fortunately, Sara doesn't seem to mind the babbling. Instead, she looks at Oliver in something akin to approval. "I like her—she's cute." It stops Felicity from speaking; with four words, Sara has solidified a friendship between them. Felicity thinks she's going to enjoy working with Sara Lance.

With a smile and words aimed only at Felicity, he answers, "I like her, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Kill All Your Friends" - My Chemical Romance  
> "Stay" - SafetySuit  
> "Bruised and Scarred" - Mayday Parade  
> "Good Enough" - Evanescence  
> "Kids in the Dark" - All Time Low


	49. Wireless Synchronization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sara and Oliver have a night out on the town. The phrase “out on the town” being a euphemism for “kicking bad guy ass together in masks and vigilante gear.” It’s a rough translation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m surprised by the way this chapter turned out. I’m not sure that it’s a _bad_ surprise, but just not the way I expected it to go. Especially with the starting perspective. But I’ll let you be the judge of it. If you want to tell me what you think about it, thanks. If not, thank you just for reading! :)

Allowing Oliver to take the lead, Sara follows behind him in the sublevel of the mental facility, every cell in her body on high alert. Her eyes scan the narrow hallway with ease, making the action an instinct over the past three years. She keeps her bo staff at the ready, prepared to swing it with little warning. Oliver senses equally prepared, an arrow nocked in his bow and the draw pulled back to release in an instant. Neither one of them speak—not because they don't have anything to say, but because speaking now could alert the enemy to their presence.

Sara has plenty of things to say to Oliver, to ask about. That he even has a team at all is surprising—Ollie isn't particularly quick let anyone in—and a team that he trusts so completely is something she considered an impossibility. Even still, Ollie seems to be fond of the stoic former soldier and the cute computer whiz—though she'd guess the latter isn't quite platonic affection.

That should probably bother her as his ex-girlfriend, but, then again, she's moved on, too.

A fork in the path stops both of them short, and Sara leans to her right in an offer to take it, leaving Oliver with the left fork. "The comms are open lines, right?" she asks, the inquiry aimed at either Oliver or whomever is listening on the line.

"It's a dedicated line," Felicity answers in her ear. "There's a mute button if you need it for whatever reason, but you're always in contact with those of us at base. My handle is 'Oracle,' by the way—his idea, not mine. I'm sure your surprised to find a guy who dresses up in green leather and puts arrows in people every night has a flair for the dramatic." Somehow Sara manages to bite back a smile, even as Oliver throws her a glare. "Digg isn't here though—he had some personal business to take care of—so you're stuck with me. And my computers, of course." As if it's an afterthought, she adds, "Oh, and Oliver, but I think you already know that."

Sara starts down the hallway, surprised by the name on Felicity's lips—she hadn't realized he had entrusted them with his identity. "You know who the Arrow is, then?" she murmurs, moving slower through the corridor now that she knows she's alone.

"It's a new development," Felicity answers, and Sara can hear fingers clicking across a keyboard in the background. "But yes. Digg and I both know, but we're the only ones in on the secret." She pauses before adding, "Well, the only two that _matter_ , I guess. There's Helena"—the name is unfamiliar, and the dark tone Felicity says it with indicates a lot—"but Oliver basically kicked her out of town. And Tommy, but Oliver is trying to keep you two away from each other. Tommy is happily dating Laurel, and the last thing Oliver wants is for secrets to come between them."

The admission causes the Canary to stop short. "You know my identity," she realizes, and she isn't quite sure how she feels about that yet. Before Felicity can respond to the statement, she asks a question in surprise, "Laurel is dating Tommy now?" It's a surprise; even when Sara was sleeping with Ollie, she knew that he and Laurel were always going to end up together. Apparently the island changed that for him, too.

When Felicity answers, it has nothing to do with the tone of the previous conversation. "Oliver?" she calls out, her tone low and hesitant with something resembling dread. Sara doesn't feel it at first, but she does when he doesn't answer—he knows better than that. "Oliver, I need to know what's going on—I lost your video feed." Again there is no answer, and Sara can feel the tension hanging in the air. The next sentence isn't aimed at her. "Hey, Digg, sorry to interrupt your meeting, but something happened and I lost Oliver's feed. I know it's probably nothing but—" Her voice cuts off, and then, "I'll see you soon. And thank you."

"Sara," Felicity barks, using her name for the first time. She's forgotten how nice it is to hear someone call her by name, and she thinks she could get used to the feeling all over again, even as she kicks into high alert. "We have a slight problem." In a very calm voice, she continues, "I think something happened to Oliver—I got a nice shot of the floor and then it went dark." Now that Sara hears her words, she can hear the hint of sheer panic buried underneath. "I think you should probably go after him."

By the time she offers the suggestion, Sara is already running in the opposite direction, toward Oliver's end of the corridor. It takes a while because she checks every doorway, only to find them empty and abandoned for ages. Finally, she reaches the last one, only to find a muttering man in a straightjacket. He's strapped to the table, muttering on about nonsense that she doesn't try to make sense of. Instead, her eyes focus on the tubing connected to him, leading into a machine filtering out a compound—almost like a dialysis machine. After staring for a long moment, she finally notices the blood on the floor.

The words leave her mouth of their own accord: "Oracle, I need that GPS tracker's location— _now_."

Fingers click across a keyboard, and Felicity's words seemingly have little to do with her work. "I'll look it up, but you _do_ realize that they're not pinpoint-accurate, right? I can narrow it down to a few feet, but that doesn't do much good in a multiple-story building. I don't get three-dimensional coordinates." She takes a deep breath, and Sara can hear her exhale over the line. "Fifty feet north and moving." More clicking before she continues, "Back into the corridor and take a left-hand turn, three hundred yards, and then hang a right."

Sara doesn't waste time with the suggestion, following the directions to the letter. Unlike Felicity, however, she focuses her panic into action, moving forward without thinking. At some point she hears Felicity inform her that they're headed to the mental facility, but her thoughts are focused on ensuring that the rooms are empty and that she's moving in the right direction. With guidance from the computer genius, Sara is able to keep behind him.

Words spoken by a new voice over the comms make them all stop short. "Oliver Queen," the voice states clearly, and Sara thinks she could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows. "All those years on that island really _did_ change you, didn't they?"

Oliver doesn't answer directly, but his answer causes her to breathe in relief. "The Count didn't fake losing his mind, did he?" is the accusation. "This was you the whole time—down here in an abandoned wing of the basement." The location is a clue, Sara knows, and she starts toward it, Felicity adding coordinates and directions in her ear. Never backing down, even when it's in his best interest, he continues, "How did you get him to give you the formula for Vertigo? Chemistry doesn't seem like his best subject right now."

"He couldn't tell me if he wanted to," the other man answers. "I ordered a biopsy on his kidneys—and the tissue was suffused with Vertigo after the O.D. When I got the results, I was able to reverse-engineer the compound and synthesize a version of it using the facilities down here."

"And made a few improvements, like adding chlorpromazine," Oliver adds, and Sara wonders what the hell his game is. Pissing the guy off is just going to expedite his death, and they need time to find him, even with the hints being dropped. "Did you ever stop to think that you were sending people to a morgue, to be dissected in a laboratory like this one?"

It's the hint she needs, the one that makes all other rooms pointless. Laboratories are clearly marked and labeled, even if they're old and haven't been used in a while. It's enough to speed up her process of tracking him, even as Oliver starts to speak again. "The cops came around, started asking questions, so you faked the Count's disappearance to draw attention away from yourself." There's a long pause before he grudgingly admits, "It's clever."

"I wasn't trying to be clever or a criminal mastermind," the man answers with a clinically detached voice that frightens Sara more than anything. It reminds her of Ivo, of the terrible things he did to men just for the sake of science. "I just needed the money—something I'm sure a billionaire wouldn't understand." Oliver doesn't respond, and then the other man says, "Open his mouth." It causes a feeling of dread to wash over her.

Apparently Sara isn't the only one. "Oliver," Felicity's voice says into the earpiece, "just hold tight. Sara and Digg are on their way." There's something resolute in her voice, so confident and determined, probably because she can't afford to be anything else. Knowing that the panic will only make her react frantically, she forces the desperation down.

"There's… arrow," Oliver chokes out in a gasp around gurgling noises, but Sara doesn't understand the meaning behind them. Instead, she takes the nearest corner, immediately pushing through the doors marked "Laboratory." She expects to see Oliver strapped to a table, but it's empty.

Another voice breaks through the comm link, this one less familiar but still recognizable, after a set of gunshots. "I've got him," Diggle states calmly. "Canary, you have a runner headed your way—the doctor bailed on me."

"I'm on it," Sara assures him, and as soon as the words leave her mouth, sure enough, a man in a white coat runs past her. Still in the shadows, she waits for the right moment, using her bo staff to push him against the wall. With one hand, she presses the mute button on her comm and switches on her synthesizer. "Where do you think you're going?" she asks him.

"So the Arrow doesn't work alone," the doctor says. "What are you going to do? I know his identity, and you're not going to kill me—the Arrow doesn't kill." He seems so confident that she nearly smiles at his mistake. "Let me walk away with two million dollars in cash, and I'll keep the secret. You _need_ —"

Sara pushes the bo staff up against his neck, cutting him off quietly. "I don't _need_ you to do anything," she retorts. "And you're wrong about more than just that. You _do_ know his identity, and he _could_ pay you off, but he isn't going to." She presses the bo staff tighter against his throat. "But I _am_ a killer."

Before he can respond, Sara removes the bo staff from his neck, using her hands to snap it until she hears the tell-tale crack of bone snapping. It used to sicken her—to bother her—back when she was in the League, but this sort of killing has nothing to do with a price or a bounty. This has to do with protecting someone she cares about, and it gives her a purpose for the skills she'd rather not have. It still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth to kill him.

But, to keep the people she cares about safe, she'd kill a thousand more.

 

* * *

 

Felicity can feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and they have nothing to do with the draft in the mental institution. It's mostly to do with the Oliver-is-probably-about-to-die-from-a-drug-overdose- _again_ situation that makes the panic set in, makes her hands shake. She's trying to stay calm, but it's hard to do when Oliver could be dead or dying somewhere in the building.

When she walks ahead of him, Diggle pushes her back, reaching the arm _not_ holding the gun out for her behind him to remind her where she should be. "Behind me, Felicity," he demands, his tone sharp as he starts to switch into bodyguard mode. "I am _not_ going to be used for target practice because you charged ahead of me." Under different circumstances, she probably would have smiled, but right now all she can think about is Oliver.

She follows Digg for what feels like an eternity before they find the marked laboratory door. Instead of charging in, he turns to her. "You stay here until I tell you," he warns her. "And I _will_ tell you, but I need to clear the room first." It's a warning to stay put, a promise that he won't shield her from whatever they're about to walk into. He'll let her see it, no matter how much it hurts.

Felicity rather likes that quality about John Diggle.

He unmutes his comm before bursting into the room, and she hears gunshots—both near and close—before Diggle says into the comm, "I've got him." It makes her heart clench; Felicity has no idea if he's talking about the gunman or Oliver, but either way, it's better than they had before. "Canary, you have a runner headed your way. The doctor bailed on me."

"I'm on it," she hears Sara answer with a dark voice into her comm, but Felicity is too distracted by Diggle's all-clear to pay any attention to it. Her thoughts are only on Oliver, on what could be happening to him in there. It makes her sick, makes her want to do something reckless and damn the consequences of it all.

Despite Digg's warning, Felicity charges into the room, knowing he wouldn't have cleared it unless everyone was taken down. Finding him standing over Oliver isn't exactly what she expected, and she can't see him breathing. She kneels beside him, and a string of the word "no" comes out of her mouth, each word tumbling over itself. Diggle says something to her, but she's beyond hearing it. In her haste to make sure he's breathing—that his heart is still beating, she knocks against the steel rolling table next to her. She reaches at it to steady it, and her hand lands on the quiver. It dawns on her suddenly— _arrows_. _That's_ what Oliver was trying to tell her.

With a jolt of inspiration, Felicity checks the arrows in the bow, until her fingers land on one a little different than the others: a capsule attaches at its end, full of the liquid she remembers him brewing from herbs to stop the drug from acting on the homeless man at the aquarium earlier in the week. She pulls it out of the quiver, unable to believe what she's about to do. "Oh, Oliver," she mutters to herself, "I hope you were right about this." The way she sees it, the world is full of hard decisions, and she's faced with one right now: she can either take Oliver to the hospital, watch him get arrested, and possibly watch him die as she's carted away in cuffs; _or_ she can try to save him now and possibly watch him die.

Really, there's no choice to make.

Even as Diggle asks her what she's doing (to which she wants to respond _I have absolutely no idea_ ), Felicity jabs the needle end of the arrow into his chest, just below his heart. Immediately, Oliver's eyes open and he rolls over to crouch on his elbows and knees, gagging and choking until he expels some sort of green liquid onto the floor. Felicity's hands are on him the entire time, one at his lower back, and one on his shoulder.

He practically collapses back onto the floor after he's finished, his breathing heavy as she slides over so that his head rests in her lap. "I thought we agreed you'd stop scaring me like this," Felicity says quietly to him, pressing her lips to his temple afterward. "We had a good thing going with that mutual let's-don't-scare-each-other thing, and now you've botched it."

Instead of answering, he manages to push himself away from her. "Digg," he manages weakly, "get her off the floor—she's bleeding." It takes her a moment to realize why, but then Felicity finally notes the glass shattered everywhere, the glass digging into her exposed shins and tops of her feet—and that the red blood on the ground around her isn't blood spatter from the corpse across the room. She didn't even feel them.

Before she can respond, Diggle catches her arm, pulling her upright. Then he wraps Oliver's arm over his shoulder, hoisting him up into a standing position. "You look like hell," he offers. "But, then again, you nearly OD'd, so I think you deserve to look like hell."

"The doctor is taken care of," Sara offers in the comm system. "I'll meet you back in the van—I shouldn't stay out in the open." There's something different about her voice—something darker than she heard before. Either way, Felicity decides it doesn't matter; they're relatively safe, and the Count isn't going to be causing trouble again anytime soon.

The cold night air stings her legs when they leave the basement of the mental institution, but it doesn't really bother her as much as the chill on her arms. This time it's because of the cold, but she tries to fight it. An arm drapes over her and Oliver pulls her against him, rubbing slightly at her exposed arm. "I didn't want you in there," he says to her quietly, "but thank you."

"I love you, Oliver," she states, surprised how it comes out like the simplest thing in the world. Then she realizes that, in a way, it is. He stumbles over a step, and it dawns on her that she's never really said it before—not in so many words. Once as a way to soften the words that followed, but never so seriously and completely. "That means I'm always going to go in after you—whether you want me to or not."

He only shakes his head, pulling away from Diggle to attempt the step up into the van. After he makes it, he somehow manages to wedge himself into position in the corner so that he can hoist her up. It's probably so that he can prevent anymore damage to her legs, but she can see him wincing with the motion because of the pain it causes him.

Then, instead of sitting down next to her, Oliver stops to pull off the mask and unzip the jacket. After he's out of it, he throws it around Felicity's shoulders, mostly likely noticing her chill earlier. She rolls her eyes but adjusts it. Under any other circumstances, she'd return it, but he's wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt underneath, so she figures he's comfortable.

With a purpose, he walks over to the box of medical supplies in the corner, grabbing it before turning back to her. "What are you doing?" she asks, perhaps a little sharply. "You should rest—you've been through a lot in the past hour." She looks to Sara for support, curled on the bench across from her, but the Canary says nothing either way.

He doesn't answer her, choosing to ignore her instead. Felicity just hopes that he doesn't really think that will work—they both know better. Then he reaches to cup the back of her thigh just above her knee, pulling her leg onto his lap. "These could get infected," he replies evenly, "and I think some of them will require stitches." She opens her mouth to argue, but then Oliver throws her a look that makes her protests die on her tongue.

It's because Felicity is very certain she wore that expression when Diggle begged her to wait in the van.

Still, she isn't going to give in without a fight—he's too weak for anything like that. So instead, she settles for a compromise. "You know you don't have to do this, right?" she can't help but ask. "After we get back, I could get Digg or Tommy or maybe…" She trails off, turning toward the woman on the other side of the vehicle. "Sara, you wouldn't care to take care of these when—"

She can't finish the statement because Oliver cuts her off with a brief kiss. "I want to do this," he assures her quietly, and they both know that her further arguments are pointless. Unlike Oliver, though, Felicity knows when an argument isn't going to work, so she simply doesn't argue any further.

"Go heavy on the lidocaine," she answers reluctantly with a sigh, leaning back against the wall, "and let me know before you start with the needles so I can look away. I _hate_ needles." She waves a hand absently, closing her eyes. "I haven't gotten a flu shot in years because of it, even though I probably should. Barry always says I should—something about the body's defense system—but I always want to watch them go in, and that wigs me out."

The chuckle doesn't come from the direction she expects, but Sara seems to enjoy Felicity's babbling. To be honest, Felicity has forgotten about her presence because she's been so quiet tonight. "Nice to see you happy for a change, Ollie," she comments lightly, though her tone is anything but. The message is subtle, as is the nod she gives Felicity, but it shows them both that she's happy for them, instead of the typical-vengeful-ex-girlfriend drama. That suits Felicity fine—if they ever need that, they can get back in touch with Helena.

"I don't know if _happy_ is the right word for tonight," Felicity replies dryly when it's clear Oliver isn't going to say anything. "He was nearly killed by a drug dealer on a routine mission, and now, instead of getting to rest, he's patching up my legs because I was stupid enough to kneel on glass."

Finally, Oliver does give voice to an answer: "And there's nowhere else I'd rather be."


	50. Installation of Additional Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton Chekhov leaves one of his favorite guns in this chapter. That really has nothing to do with the plot, but these summary things are more difficult than you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter decided to be a bear this week, and I have no idea what I did to insult it. While it may not look very plot-laden on its surface, it's going to come into play in the next few chapters. Also, let's get a little excited; we've finally moved out of 1.19 Unfinished Business, one of my least favorite episodes of Season 1! But 1.20 Home Invasion promises to have a few tricks up its sleeve. ;) I'd love to hear what you think, but, as always, thanks for just taking the time to read! :)

With a defeated sigh, Felicity turns back every few steps as Oliver follows her down the stairs, looking as though he's had enough for one night. Usually he storms down the stairs to the lair, but but he's barely moving tonight. The Vertigo in his system is taking its toll, and she doesn't think the sweat at his forehead has anything to do with being hot—especially when it's thirty degrees outside.

Even Diggle and Sara look concerned; Digg sits on the gurney in the middle of the room with eyes on Oliver, and Sara stands back against the weapon storage toolbox, leaning on her bo staff. Even though the mask still shades her eyes, the downward curve of one corner of her mouth gives her feelings away easily enough.

Instead of heading straight for the bathroom to change into street clothes like he usually does, Oliver pulls the cot from the back into the middle of the room, next to Felicity's desk. He drops onto it with a sigh after draping his jacket over the back of her chair and placing his mask on her desk. It just shows how exhausted he is, and that concerns Felicity. Oliver isn't the kind to show any sign of weakness, so if he's in this kind of shape, it's far worse than it appears.

Just as she sinks down on the ground beside him, there's a ding from her cell phone—a text from Tommy letting her know that he has the food from Big Belly Burger. After everything that had happened, she called him to bring food, and the affirmative makes her feel better for no reason. Oliver doesn't ask or say anything, only reaching out for her hand, and she squeezes his.

After he fell asleep in the van, she thought he'd feel better, but apparently it wasn't enough time to catch his second wind. Felicity knows she could probably say something about the condition he's in, but she doesn't, already knowing that he understands her concern and doesn't need to hear it again. "I have Tommy out scrounging for food—you looked like you need something greasy and perfectly unhealthy to eat," she comments. "But, on second thought, I'm not exactly sure he knows how to order from a fast-food restaurant."

Diggle snorts, clearly understanding her need to talk about something else. "Believe it or not," he says slowly, "he actually ordered his own food before we went after Falk." She knows the night he's talking about—the night she sent the boys up for food while she was looking for Nickels—but it feels like ages. "I think he might be able to survive on his own one of these days— _if_ someone would teach him how to cook."

"That's a fire hazard waiting to happen," Oliver adds quietly, chiming into the conversation with a small smile as he stares up at the ceiling. "Raisa tried to teach him once, but he set off the smoke alarms and the sprinkler system in the house." He allows himself a breathy laugh. "I didn't learn how to cook until Hong Kong. Tatsu taught me because she said she wasn't my maid."

Felicity smiles when she realizes that Oliver is giving her more information about the five years away, but she knows better than to ask more about it. Instead, she treats it as casual conversation. "If Mrs. Nagorski were still alive, she would be able to fix that problem—she taught all of her foster kids to cook." She tilts her head to the side with a smile. "Barry was hopeless, but she taught him how make a _few_ things so he wouldn't starve when he started living on his own." Felicity scoffs. "And if she was able to teach Barry _something_ , Tommy would have been a master chef by the time she was done."

"How do you know I'm not _already_ a master chef, Smoaky?" The man himself offers from the doorway. He immediately draws up short, however, when his eyes land on Sara lingering in the shadow of a support column, probably attempting to use the shadows in order to conceal her identity. "And _you_ must be the one kicking ass on the street—Canary, right?" He holds up the bag of food. "If I knew we had company, I would have brought more."

Felicity turns to Oliver. "Do you see what you've done?" she demands, the tone softened by the smile on her face. "You've broken our fear response to people in masks because of your…" She waves a hand, unable to think of the words. "General _goodness_ and un-vigilante-like behavior." Oliver chuckles, and she tugs on his arm until he sits upright. "Let's put some food in you."

On cue, Tommy passes the bag of food away from them, but Oliver pushes it toward Felicity. "I think I just need some rest," he assures her. "I'm not sure eating right now would agree with me."

She knows he must feel horrible if he's turning down Big Belly Burger, so she jokingly places a hand to his forehead. He's clammy, which bothers her, but he also doesn't look as pale as he did in the hospital. "Okay, now I _know_ you're not feeling well, if you're turning down the best fast food in the city," she teases, and she's rewarded with a slight smile. Then she kisses him before rising to her feet. "Get some sleep—I think the four of us can hold down the fort without you for a few hours."

"So," Tommy says as Felicity settles herself into her chair, "how is my favorite blonde?" Then he turns to Sara. "No offense, Canary, but I don't know you." He drops onto Felicity's desk with a smile, and she shoves him off with a look of irritation she doesn't feel, crossing her legs as she sits back in her chair. "And what the hell happened to your legs?"

It takes her a moment to remember, staring down at the red, angry lines across her shins in confusion before it dawns on her. "Glass shards," she explains shortly, not wanting to go into detail. Tommy looks suitably upset, and she rolls her eyes. "I'm fine, Merlyn—a few scratches, but nothing serious." She shrugs. "Small price to pay for saving my boyfriend's life."

Tommy's expression changes as he glances over at Oliver. Then he manages to say the thought she's been thinking in the back of her mind ever since the Dodger: "You really need to learn how to fight if you're going to be out in the field, Smoaky." He holds up his hands. "It may have been nothing tonight, but last time it was Ollie's psycho ex-girlfriend." Sara's eyes go wide, but she doesn't say anything, which Felicity appreciates. "And the time before that, it was something about a bomb collar." He turns toward Sara with a thoughtful expression. "You're good at kicking ass. Could you teach her?"

Sara opens her mouth to speak, but a harsh, low tone answers sharply, " _No._ " Felicity jumps, thinking Oliver had already fallen asleep, but also startled by his tone. His voice has that dark, quiet edge that he uses under the synthesizer, and she thinks this might be adamant and determined on this particular subject. "Felicity is never in any danger in the field, Tommy—Digg and I both make sure of that."

This time Felicity is the one opening her mouth to argue, but Sara steps up in her defense. "No woman should ever suffer at the hands of men," she states with a cold tone under her synthesizer, and Felicity can't disagree. "And everyone should be able to protect themselves."

Tilting his head to the side to look at her, Oliver narrows his eyes. Despite lying prone on the cot and being several shades more pale than usual, he still manages to look somewhat intimidating. "Canary," he snaps darkly, "I don't think you should be concerned about Felicity." There's a note of warning to his tone, a not-so-subtle demand to drop the subject completely.

Tommy shrugs, apparently unwilling to let the subject go. "Well, Ollie, I think—" Oliver shoots him a dark look, one more intimidating than the one he offered Sara. It's a clear indication that Oliver isn't interested in his opinion, causing Merlyn to quickly finish the thought with, "That I should probably shut my mouth because, even as weak as you are, you could probably kick my ass right now."

With a false smile that somehow manages to come off as threatening, Oliver answers, "That's a good thought." He nods once, eyes tight with irritation. "Trust that instinct." Felicity knows it's a hollow threat, and she finds herself surprised into a laugh by that rare display of humor. Tommy doesn't seem to appreciate the humor in it at first, but then he sees Felicity's reaction and breaks into a smile.

Diggle leans back against the gurney. "Want to know what I think?" he offers, giving Oliver one of his signature looks that speak volumes. It's clear just by the crossing of his arms and the lift of his eyebrow that Digg thinks Oliver is being a little irrational on the subject.

"Not really," Oliver retorts with an uptick of the corners of his mouth. "But I know you're going to tell me anyway."

As though Oliver had never spoken, Diggle barrels on. "I think that anyone who works with us should have some sort of training. Not because Felicity's going to charge out into the field, but because, if there's one thing we both know about this life, it's that nothing goes according to plan."

"Well, there you have it," Felicity offers with a wave of her hand. "Team Arrow has spoken." She tilts her head to the side. "Well, technically, Roy and Barry should be included in this vote since they're part of Team Arrow, too, but I'm pretty sure you'd still be out-voted."

"We don't call ourselves that," Oliver says immediately, proving he feels better than he appears if he's still objecting to the term _Team Arrow_. "And this isn't a vote, Felicity. We'll talk about this later." His tone is dark, almost daring her to argue with him, but she wonders why he even bothers. They both know that it's going to take a _lot_ more than grr-voice to make her back down.

"Maybe it isn't a vote," she agrees, "but it _is_ a discussion, Oliver." She crosses her arms. "And while I'm glad to give this up for now if you're not feeling well, don't think that dropping the subject now will keep me from arguing with you about it later. You should know by now that I don't give up so easily."

Oliver throws her a dry smile. "I'm well aware." It's all he says, but the look on his face says enough—adoration mixed with irritation and frustration. She's starting to think of it as his Felicity-why-do-you-do-this-to-me look, and she's not sure if it should offend her or not. Then he sighs. "We should probably go home." Though the suggestion is subtle and could be generic, the way his eyes meet hers makes Felicity think that he's speaking solely to her.

"That's a good suggestion," Tommy comments. "It's even too late for the club scene now—we're closing up in a half hour." He turns to Oliver. "I'm actually going home tonight." He shrugs. "Laurel is trying to work on this new, high-profile case, and she's probably been up half the night studying it." Felicity's eyes flick over to Sara, who remains oddly stoic. "I don't want to wake her. Want me to drive you home?"

Oliver offers a smile, not looking away from Felicity. "Thank you," he answers, "but I'm not going back to the house tonight." The intense look in his eyes makes her smile, knowing exactly what he's thinking. "I've spent too much time there in the past few weeks."

Tommy's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "You two are already at the I-have-a-drawer stage?" he asks in an incredulous tone, and Felicity isn't quite sure how to decipher that. Then he waves a hand. "I think there's something about that being a huge step and whatever, but I can't remember all of the speech."

Shrugging, Felicity replies honestly, "I think we just do what makes sense to us. I don't know about Oliver, but I don't exactly have a plan here." She's done with planning relationships—those never seem to work out for her. The last time she tried picturing her happily ever after, it was with Cooper, and she's not making that mistake again. It also gave her clarity to relationships: now she sees the people in her life for who they are, not who she wants them to be. "Besides," she adds after a long pause, "I don't think there's really a guidebook for dating while fighting crime as vigilantes. If there was, I doubt it sold many copies. Who would need that kind of self-help book?"

Oliver's response is simple and immediate: "Not us."

 

* * *

 

With a sigh, Felicity steps into the elevator, Oliver right behind her. Usually they'd take the stairs, but she doubts he has six flights of stairs in him tonight. He didn't argue when she suggested the elevator, and she realizes now why that is as he presses his back to the wall, sliding down it until he sits against it. She knows there isn't any reason to worry—he assured her he's fine, and he doesn't lie to her—but it still concerns her for the obvious reasons.

She drops down next to him, sucking in a breath when the movement stretches the skin against her shins, making the cuts sting even through the lidocaine and the antiseptic. Frowning at the bad timing of having the medications wearing off, Felicity focuses on Oliver and his sorry state first. "We're a wreck," she decides, and he chuckles.

There's some spark of a moment between them when their eyes meet, and Felicity is both surprised by and expecting the kiss that follows. While the kiss by itself isn't uncommon—Oliver always seems to be kissing her for some reason or another—the intensity behind it is unexpected. Still, it isn't an unpleasant surprise; she welcomes it by placing her hands on either side of his jaw and giving in completely. He uses one hand to keep balance as he turns to her, but the other applies pressure to her hip. Then it sink gradually lower, and a thought comes back to her.

The last time he kissed her like this, she ended up in bed with him.

Though she certainly didn't find their last interlude lacking in any way, she knows that neither of them feel well enough for this. It makes her throw on the brakes, pulling away from him with a smile on her lips. "I know it goes against everything you believe in," she teases, "but we should try to take things easy tonight." Before he can respond, the doors of the elevator open, and Felicity realizes that the shadow over one of his eyes isn't a shadow. She touches the bruise there with the lightest touch she can manage. "When did you get a black eye?"

He shrugs as though it's nothing, like people get black eyes all the time and it's a perfectly normal thing to have happened to him. "One of the mercenaries threw a punch," he explains in a casual tone. "I thought it would bruise." One of these days, she decides, she's going to stop being surprised by his cavalier attitude about injuries. Then it dawns on her that he's probably had worse than even the horrible ones she's seen. To him, it probably _is_ nothing to have a bruise that makes him look like he's part raccoon.

Rising to her feet, Felicity offers him a hand up that he takes. "We'll go put some ice on that," she assures him. "I think that your family might get a little suspicious if they see you walking around with a shiner."

"They probably wouldn't think much of it," Oliver replies as they walk toward her apartment. "If I said I started a drunken fight, no one would really question it." The casual tone in his voice makes her hurt for him. Because Felicity sees every side of him, sometimes she forgets that not everyone is afforded that view of Oliver Queen, that sometimes they still see him as the kid who got into trouble for stupid stunts in his youth.

Just as she opens her mouth to say something to that effect, she notices the piece of paper taped to her door. With one hand, she pulls it free of the tape, groaning a curse under her breath when she reads the text. When Oliver calls her name, it's a question, his expression shaded with concern. "My landlord has officially served the notice that the place is being fumigated for termites in two days." She wads up the paper in the palm of her hand before pushing the key into the door. "Which means that I have to spend six days in a motel because of the chemicals, and probably find a place to board Saphira for a week." She sighs as she ushers him in.

As Oliver drops onto his end of the couch, he offers carefully, "You could stay at the house." His tone is low and hesitant, as though he isn't sure how she'll react and he doesn't want to spook her for some reason. Then she pieces it together with what Tommy said earlier in the night about moving too fast, and realizes that he doesn't want to make her feel like he's pushing too fast in their relationship.

"We have plenty of rooms," he continues as she sits down next to him, "and Thea has been complaining about how she rarely gets to see you anymore." He offers her a timid smile that makes her want to kiss him again. "And I'm sure that no one would mind if Saphira came, too."

At the mention of her name, the little dog barks, and Felicity knows it's because she wants out. Somehow managing to heave herself off the couch, walks to the spare bedroom, opening the door there. While she greets Felicity shortly, her attention turns immediately to Oliver. Almost as though she knows he isn't feeling well, she's subdued when she curls into his lap, tail wagging lazily. Then she makes a trip to the freezer to grab an ice pack, which Oliver places against the bruise with a quiet, "Thank you."

Felicity resituates herself on the sofa again, turning toward Oliver and resting her arm on the back of the couch. While part of her wants to accept the offer, she also remembers that Moira will be there, too. The cold way she greeted Felicity the last time they crossed paths stays with her, and it's part of the reason she's been avoiding the Queen mansion ever since.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," she answers slowly, trying to figure out how to prevent upsetting her boyfriend while not pissing off his mom, too. There needs to be a book on this, she decides. "I don't want to be an inconvenience or anything." She sees that excuse isn't going to fly, so Felicity decides to bite the bullet and tell him where her fears are coming from. "And I—your—" With an awkward shake of her head, she changes her mind as she finds something interesting about the coffee table. He's already hurting enough for one night.

He pulls the ice pack away from his face and captures her chin in his hands, tilting her attention back to him like he used to do so often—only this time there are no gloves or synthesizers. "And?" he prompts gently, locking his eyes with hers.

It isn't fair, Felicity decides. He knows that she can't lie to him, especially not when she has no choice but to stare at those eyes and lie straight to his face. Now she understands why he's survived so long in the field: Oliver Queen does _not_ fight fair, and he makes no apologies for it. "Your mom doesn't like me," she blurts. His eyes go wide at the startled admission, but she's surprised by it, too.

Rushing on with a panic which probably isn't helping her case, she adds, "And that's okay—she doesn't have to like me and I'm not trying to make this into an issue—I don't want to be that girlfriend who makes you choose her or your family. But she has this vibe going for her—a kind of invoke-my-wrath-and-you'll-suffer-for-eternity thing. If the criminals ever found out you two were related, I don't think anyone would really be surprised. Sure, you're scary, but if _she_ ever started taking down bad guys with a hood, the criminals would start confessing to the cops just to escape her." Her rambling catches up to her then, and she cringes with closed eyes, willing the whole speech to go away. "And, oh my God, I'm talking about your mom—I'm so sorry."

Holding her breath, Felicity waits for him to respond, but it doesn't come like she expects. Instead of snapping at her defensively and using that we-will- _not_ -talk-about-my-mother's-evil-tendencies tone that he gives Diggle all the time, he laughs. It wouldn't be a laugh to anyone else, but she soft, breathy sound makes her finally open her eyes again.

Sure enough, the smile on his face is blinding. "Felicity," he says, laughing the word, and she thinks that, of all the ways he says her name, this might be her new favorite. "I know my mother can be…" He trails off, and she offers a few options in her head that thankfully don't leave her mouth: _Scary? Vicious? A Disney-worthy villain?_ "Abrasive," he finally finishes, and she thinks that works, too, "but she's just trying to protect my sister and I. They've had a long five years, and with everything that happened with my father and Walter, she's been more distrustful." He touches her hand. "But I think that she just needs time to get to know you." With a smile that makes him think they're no longer talking about his mother, he finishes with, "It doesn't take that much time for people to fall in love with you."

Though she tries, Felicity can't resist rolling her eyes. "And there's the famous Oliver Queen charm I've heard so much about," she teases, and the look she receives is less than amused. "I was starting to wonder if it was just a myth." Too late she realizes he'll probably take it as a blow to his pride, and, with that single line as indication, Felicity does _not_ want him to take it as a challenge. She won't be able to win against that.

"That wasn't me trying to charm you, Felicity—that was the truth," he assures her. He picks Saphira up and places her on the floor before turning back to Felicity, who then realizes how badly she has screwed up. Then he leans in so close that she thinks he's going to kiss her, but he doesn't. She's only disappointed for a moment before he pulls her attention away from his mouth and toward his words. "I don't want you at a motel where I can't afford to be seen visiting you, Felicity. I want you at the house and across the hall, where I can spend every night with you in my arms." Then he adds the final word, breathy and quietly demanding: "Please."

As soon as she murmurs her "mmm-hmm" of agreement, his face splits into a smile, and she realizes that she's been had. Immediately she pokes a finger in his chest. "You play dirty, Oliver," she accuses, and he doesn't even attempt to argue. "And I will not be held accountable for anything I say when you coerce me with your… magic charm voodoo. I'm only human—I can't be expected to resist."

Before kissing her, he answers, "I hope you never do."


	51. Creation of Temporary Files

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity faces her two biggest fears: the Queen mansion and Moira. Not necessarily in that order. Even though it _is_ in that order; it certainly didn't have to be and is completely the writer's choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my birthday, you guys get a present. ;) Hopefully it's a good one, but I'll let you be the judge. Thanks for reading, and if you want to drop me a comment or a review, I'd appreciate your time! :D

"Remind me again why I agreed to this," Felicity mutters to Oliver as she follows him to the door of the Queen mansion. The structure looms over her, and it looks a little more foreboding that it did in her past visits. Though she knows it's all in her head, she can't help but swallow hard anyway. "Because I feel like this is a _really_ bad idea. Can I go on record as saying that? I'm not the kind to say 'I told you so,' but I'd like you to remember it when everything goes wrong."

In a slow, fluid motion, Oliver turns back to her. "Felicity," he calls in a gentle tone, the edges just sharp enough to jolt her out of her concerns for a moment. "It's going to be fine. My mother had no objections." It doesn't calm her nerves any; they both know that Oliver would lie to her about this one thing to make her feel better. While she appreciates it, the possibility of the lie makes her hesitant to believe him.

Before she can argue with him about it, he throws the door open, wheeling in her suitcase while she carries Saphira. The dog is alert in her arms, but thankfully not screaming or otherwise making a scene. Felicity is afraid to put her down, even though she's on a leash, concerned how she'll act around the expensive décor.

As if she's tuned in to Felicity's concerns, Moira Queen rounds the corner, stopping short as she takes in the blonde and the dog in her arms. "Oh, there you are," Moira states with a polished smile. "I'm glad to have you staying with us, Felicity." She doesn't believe it for an instant; they both know this is an attempt to play nice for Oliver's sake. "And your dog, too." Felicity tightens her arm around Saphira, wondering if this is how Dorothy felt when the Wicked Witch of the West threatened Toto.

Pulling Saphira tighter against her, Felicity feels the anxious energy burst out of her in a torrent of words. "I hope that's okay," she says in a torrent. "I mentioned it to Oliver, and he assured me it was fine. She's fully house-trained and I brought a carrier with me. I can still find a place to board her if that's an issue."

While Moira gives her the polite assurance that it won't be necessary, Felicity's attention shifts to Saphira, whose ears stand up higher as she cranes her neck in an attempt to see better. Then her tail starts wagging as Roy and Thea round the corner, letting out a small, half-hearted bark Roy stops as soon as he takes in the scene, lifting an eyebrow in question. "Moving in, Blondie?"

Her face colors at the implication, but she tries to keep her expression neutral. "My apartment is being fumigated, and they were nice enough to let me use a room." She turns to Mrs. Queen. "Thank you, by the way—I forgot to say that." Moira only nods, and then Felicity turns back to Roy, who tentatively reaches out a hand to scratch the dog's ears.

When it's clear that the two of them are going to get along, Felicity foists Saphira into his arms. "Could you hold onto her until I move the carrier in?" Roy doesn't seem to know how to answer. "Don't worry—she doesn't bite, she won't make a mess, and, if you _do_ manage to lose her somehow, she'll just run after Oliver all day."

Thea chuckles before explaining to her mother, "Felicity's dog loves Ollie—she does this freakishly high-pitched bark whenever he shows up." She narrows her eyes at her brother in something akin to suspicion. "And I still can't figure that out—you've been to Felicity's place a handful of times, and yet her dog loves you."

No way is Felicity going to say anything to that; she's nervous enough as it is, and she doesn't want to tell an awkward lie that they'll all see through. Oliver answers it with a shrug of his shoulders and the fake smile she's forgotten he uses—it's been a long time since she's seen it on his face. "I've been feeding her baby carrots," he answers easily. "She only likes me because she thinks I have food."

"It's actually kind of sad that you have to buy affection from a dog," Thea teases with a roll of her eyes. Then she motions to Felicity. "I'll show you up to the room, Felicity," she says with a smile, already starting up the stairs. The blonde takes her suitcase from Oliver before following behind. "Ollie and I share a wing of the house, so we put you up in one of our rooms. You're down the hall from me, and right across from Ollie if you need anything." The tone in her voice is neutral, but something about her expression indicates a reason behind the room selection

She throws the door open, and Felicty steps into the room. "Room" hardly seems like the right word; the area is large enough that she could probably fit most of her apartment inside. A desk sits to one side, a sofa takes up another, and a king-sized bed with four posts rests against the back wall. Then there's the en suite bathroom in the corner and double doors into what appears to be a walk-in closet.

"Holy cheese fries," she can't help but mutter. Even though she's seen Oliver's room before, she thought that maybe he had one of the master bedrooms or something. She didn't expect her accomodations to be so… _accomodating_. With a laugh, she says to Thea, "I've always wanted to be able to play baseball in my room." The confusion that falls over her features is adorable, and Felicity can't help but think it speaks to the kind of life Thea has lived so far. She doesn't say anything, though, and Felicity decides not to press the issue.

Before either of them can change the subject, Roy presses his shoulder against the door to open it, and Oliver follows him into the room with Saphira's crate. The teenager lets the dog down immediately, leaving her to happily sniff the room, tail wagging all the while. Oliver, however, drops Saphira's crate next to the bed, exactly where Felicity would have placed it herself. "Thank you," Felicity says to both of them.

A streak of motion catches the corner of her eye, and she turns just in time to watch Saphira's curled tail disappear out the door. She moves to get her, but stops when she realizes she isn't making a run for it. Instead, she darts across the hall to the room she vaguely recognizes as Oliver's from all those months ago, the space nearly as impersonal as the room she's borrowing for the week.

With no regard for personal space, the dog simply scrambles onto the bed, lying at the end expectantly. It takes Felicity a moment to realize it as the same way she drapes herself at the end of Felicity's own bed, waiting for both of them to climb in every night, staring with ears erect. Now that she's thinking about it, the blonde realizes it makes sense; the space probably smells like Oliver, which means that it's where _both_ he and Felicity are going to be.

She can't help but make a joke out of it. "Saphira," she calls and the dog cocks her head to one side, "you can't sleep with Oliver. You're shedding, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't want your hair all in his sheets. Sorry, but you're stuck with me." Of course the dog doesn't budge, staring at them stubbornly.

"I don't mind her sitting there," he assures her, even though it isn't necessary. She doesn't know how he puts up with it; here, every breath is a lie, every word constructed to imply something that isn't the truth. Now she understands why he spends so much time away from the house: he hates lying to the people he loves. It must be heartbreaking, Felicity thinks. At least he doesn't have to lie to _her_ anymore—it's not much of a consolation, but she's one more person he can tell the truth.

Oliver shoves his hands into his pockets. "I have some things for the club to look at right now, but would you care to stop by the club this afternoon? Tommy and I are having some technical difficulties, and neither of us know anything about the wiring in the security system." It's a convenient excuse, she thinks, explaining why she'd be at Verdant for Thea's sake. After she mumurs her agreement, he adds, "I'll pick you up around seven, and we'll pick up some dinner before."

Felicity doesn't think anything of it because this isn't an uncommon request, but Thea crosses her arms and smiles, the smugness of her features reminding Felicity of a cat who just ate a canary. Even Roy raises an eyebrow, causing Felicity's mouth to turn down in confusion. Thea just pats her brother on the shoulder. "You finally asked her out on a date," she declares. "I'm proud of you—I thought we were all going to die of old age before that happened." Roy makes a face, and Felicity knows he's thinking about her relationship with the Arrow.

Now she's talking about Oliver like he's two different people. _Again._

"It's not a date," Felicity blurts at the same time Oliver offers, "I wasn't asking her on a date." Then she turns to him, staring at Oliver a little blankly. The idea of a date in the lair makes her want to cringe. Granted that the downstairs bathroom is an _excellent_ place to make out (she has it on good authority), she has no doubt that the rest of Team Arrow would be incredibly uncomfortable if any date-like activities happened down there. No, the lair is for business. And the occasional bathroom make-out.

Thea actually looks a little disappointed, but Roy looks a little relieved. Finally, the brunette turns toward her brother. "For the love of God, Ollie," she pleads, placing her hands on his shoulders, "ask the girl on a date!" She closes her eyes for a minute, taking a deep breath as if to calm herself. "I'm trying to be understanding here, and I know you have all _kinds_ of things you're trying to sort out, but it's _obvious_."

She turns around toward Felicity. "Not that he'd ever admit it, but Ollie has had a thing for you for _months_ now." The words _I know_ nearly leave Felicity's mouth, but she settles on genuine surprise. When she last spoke with Thea on the subject, she thought that the Queen heiress had given up on the idea. Apparently not. "And it's written all over Felicity's face—if you asked her on a date, she wouldn't say no. What are you _waiting_ —"

"Thea." The rebuke doesn't come from the direction Felicity expects; instead of Oliver, Roy's quiet voice is the one that cuts across her. "Maybe you should let them figure things out." His eyes flick up to Felicity then, and she realizes that this is him trying to protect her relationship with the Arrow.

She huffs as she rounds on him, but Roy doesn't budge. Felicity always thought Thea would be the one firmly in control of their relationship because of Roy's let-the-chips-fall-where-they-may attitude, but he actually seems to hold firm on his stance. Finally she softens, turning back to her brother with a defeated sigh. "I'm sorry, Ollie," she starts without prompting, "but I've seen you since you've been home. You seem…" She struggles for the word before deciding on, "Lost. I know I've been pushy, but I just want you to be happy. The only time that seems to happen is when you're with Felicity."

With that, she turns and walks out of the room, leaving Oliver to press his lips together in a frown. He opens his mouth to speak, but Felicity already knows what he's going to say. She supplies the words for him: "You should go talk to her—I think she needs to be sure you're all right."

A small smile turns his mouth upward. "I'll see you at seven," he offers before walking out, after his sister. Felicity sends a sad smile his way, thinking about the time when she actually believed that the Queens were a perfect family. It feels like a long time ago, and now she realizes that they were just better at hiding their problems.

Slowly she becomes aware of Roy's presence still in the room and the way he fixes her with a raised eyebrow of suspicion. "I'm kind of surprised you didn't stay with the Arrow," he offers carefully. "Seems like it would be easier to explain your travel that way."

Felicity shrugs, thinking that, technically speaking, she _is_ staying with the Arrow. Roy just doesn't know that. "We have to be careful," she answers honestly. "If I'm staying with a random guy, someone might get suspicious. Detective Lance already is."

He nods, pausing to choose his words thoughtfully. "So you stay with the one person in this city who they know _isn't_ the Arrow," he notes, understanding dawning across his features. Then he shakes his head. "He must be one hell of a guy to let you stay with another man."

"That's the whole point of this team, Roy," she answers simply, again picking her words carefully so that they aren't a lie. "We do what it takes. If it was easy—if we didn't have to make sacrifices, or lie, or take beatings—there wouldn't be any point." She crosses her arms. "Besides, Oliver knows where he stands, and the Arrow doesn't have anything to prove to me."

It's his turn to shrug. "I get that, but he's still one hell of a guy." With a smile, he offers the reason: "If I was friends with someone the way you and Oliver are friends, I wouldn't have a girlfriend anymore."

 

* * *

 

Felicity has to admit that there are some perks to staying in the mansion with Oliver, especially as she lies on her stomach across the king-sized bed with her laptop in front of her. Even though she's working on Arrow business—checking for criminal activity on the List—it still manages to be relaxing, the atmosphere softer somehow. Thankfully, Mrs. Queen was called into the office to clean up a crisis at QC and Thea is enjoying time with Roy, leaving her alone with Oliver in what feels like the world's largest house.

However, she finds it more distracting here than in the lair. In Verdant's basement, Oliver would be hesitant to make such an open display of affection, but she's fairly certain that what he's doing to her neck is illegal in some states. And that doesn't include the way his hand falls at the top of her hip, his thumb rubbing circles into the small of her back.

With a growl of frustration not of the irritation variety, she snaps, " _Oliver_." His mouth pulls away from her neck immediately, and, while he stops kneading her hip, his hand doesn't leave her. "I'm trying to do some top-secret Arrow business here, and it's _very_ difficult to do when you're distracting me like this. I've been writing the same line of code for the past thirty minutes." She takes a moment to place a kiss to the corner of his jaw. "If you could let me concentrate for about two minutes, I'd appreciate it."

He obliges her without any question whatsoever. "I should probably call Digg," he admits, starting to rise from the bed. "I saw the assassination on the news—it looks like Deadshot is back in town."

Before he can shift any more on the bed, Felicity throws a hand on his shoulder. "Don't you dare leave this bed," she threatens with a wicked smile. She doesn't have to look at Oliver to know his eyebrows are raised, surprised by what he probably thinks is another accidental innuendo. It isn't. To solidify that fact, she adds, "I'm not through with you yet, Mr. Queen."

"I hope you never are," he answers simply, looking quite content to wait patiently for her time. She only manages a few keystrokes, though, before Oliver closes the laptop slowly, then rolls over to place it on the floor. Quicker than she expects, his hands are on her, pulling her in as close as possible for a rather insistent kiss. Part of her wants to comment on it, but then she realizes she'd have to _stop_ kissing him in order to speak.

It wasn't that important, anyway.

Felicity smiles into the kiss, simply enjoying the sensation of being wrapped in his arms. She didn't think it would be this difficult to hide their relationship, nor did she expect for them to have this burst of… _enthusiasm_ every time they managed to be alone. With practically no time for intimacy in their lives, it only makes the fire burn hotter when they _do_ have the opportunity.

She's not sure whose idea it is, but she ends up on top of Oliver somehow, not that either of them mind. His hands roam over her, and she has to stop to wonder how in the hell he can take the whole thing seriously when she's still in her pajamas—the ones with pigs wearing glasses and scarves. Even _she_ almost breaks into a laugh when she sees them, thinking what a ridiculous pair they are. But, she supposes, even at their most ridiculous, they work.

The moment is interrupted by the shrill ringtone of her phone, and she groans before starting to answer it. Oliver, however, locks her legs in place over his waist with firm hands. "It can wait," he says, and it's a demand and a plea all at once. The rough tone to his voice only helps to persuade her. Damn him for being able to sway her with three words and a gravelly voice.

Any other time, it would probably work, but it's the ringtone—Tommy. While she'd be more than glad to ignore him in favor of her current line of business, she remembers him talking about Laurel's high-profile case—and how Laurel tends to get in over her head when it comes to her clients. With a defeated sigh, she reaches across for the phone, not bothering to leave her current position.

"This _better_ be important, Merlyn," she answers without preamble, surprised to hear some of that same desperation in her own voice. "I've you've just interrupted me about a computer glitch at the club, turn the machine off and I'll be there in two hours." With a raised eyebrow, Oliver mouths the words, _Two hours?_ He almost looks insulted.

Before she can hang up, Tommy answers, "No, it's worse than that, Smoaky." In a shaky voice that almost belies terror, he asks, "Um, what do you know about dealing with kids?"

She actually blinks twice before realizing that this isn't just a bad dream. Then the irritation sets in again. "Just because I have boobs does not mean I know anything about children. I was never good with kids when I _was_ a kid." Oliver's eyebrows narrow in confusion at the tone of the conversation, but she ignores him as another thought makes it through the lust-induced fog in her brain. "Please tell me I'm not going to see your name and the words 'paternity suit' on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper."

"Cute, Smoaky," he snaps irritably, even though he doesn't mean it. "I happen to be babysitting. Laurel's clients have a kid, and I was roped into helping." He sighs. "If I brought him to the house, do you think you and Ollie could help? I pick him up in three hours, when the meeting starts."

"Fine," Felicity answers tiredly, mostly because she feels sorry for him. God knows this has to be Tommy Merlyn's worst nightmare. "We'll be here—three hours, and not a minute earlier." She's about to hang up when another thought crosses her mind. "And if you call me again in the next three hours, I'm going to replace all of your audio files with the sound of porcupines farting."

As soon as she terminates the call, Oliver takes the phone from her and throws it across the room without a thought before kissing her again. She somehow manages to murmur against his lips, "If you broke that, you're going to regret it." He bites her bottom lip, and she moans before adding, "Later."

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't seem to care. "I'll buy you a new one."


	52. File Maintenance on Non-Client Systems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity flirts with the consequences of breaking the law. And Oliver, but you probably knew that already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am _so_ sorry about the delay today. It’s been a really rough week, homework-wise, work has been kicking my butt, and I’ve had a migraine and eye problems all day today. It _is_ still technically Thursday in my time zone, though. Thanks for being patient and for reading! As always, comments are appreciated if you have the time, but, either way, thanks for sticking with me. ;)

Groaning as yet another search fails to net any useful information, Felicity contemplates knocking her head against the table. She's been searching for a hit on Deadshot ever since Tommy took Taylor—the kid that he'd been babysitting for Laurel's clients—back home. Now that she's in the lair, she can feel her focus come back, tuning out even the soft clanging of Oliver on the salmon ladder. Even _that_ can't distract her tonight, sounds fading into the background as her eyes do all the work.

Somehow the thought of Taylor seems to bring the memory forward, reminding her of his visit. While Felicity has never been particularly good with children and Tommy seemed out of his element, it had been _Oliver_ who had been surprisingly at ease with the seven-year-old boy. She never expected it, but the realization had manifested in an innocent thought with implications that were anything but: _he'd make a good father_. Because she's never particularly wanted children, it isn't an idea that she's thought about much. It's more a burden than anything else at this stage in their relationship, but apparently even she can't fight biological instinct.

"You don't have to look into that for me," a voice says from behind her, causing her to jump. Apparently everyone has a ninja-stealth mode except for her, and Felicity is trying not to be annoyed by the unfairness. "My contact in ARGUS says they're about to make a move." Swiveling in her chair, Felicity is just in time to watch the frown come over his face. "They want to do it without me because of my personal involvement in the case."

"Maybe they don't understand that you don't take things personally," she points out. Diggle isn't the kind of man who would hold a grudge against someone like Deadshot. He'd want justice and a sense of fairness in the judgment—that's why he joined the team, after all—but revenge and retribution aren't things he cares about. "And we both know that they're going to make a mistake and underestimate him because they don't know him the way you do."

A clanging sound makes Felicity's eyes flick to the salmon ladder, taking a moment to enjoy the sight of Oliver methodically moving upward with the bar. She's so mesmerized that she nearly misses it when he says, "So we take Lawton out on our own." The declaration is simple, as though they're talking about stopping a petty thief instead of an international assassin. "We can move him to any prison you want—I have some contacts who can take care of that." Both Felicity and Diggle look at him with wide eyes. She figured Oliver knew about the Deadshot thing, but she didn't think he'd say anything about it. "You've helped me mark names off my List, Digg. Let me help you mark one off of yours."

"You have a lot on your plate, Oliver," Diggle insists, but the other man is already shaking his head. "You don't need my problems, too. Especially now that Sara's back in town, your mom is doing God knows what with God knows who, and meanwhile every cop in this city is gunning for you." He crosses his arms. "I can handle a rogue assassin on my own."

Oliver only fixes him with a stony look, declaring clearly that he isn't going to let this go. "You won't have to," he insists, crossing his arms. "Tell me what you've learned about him."

"I passed information to a contact at ARGUS hoping that they'd lure him out," Diggle answers, albeit a little reluctantly. Then he chuckles without a sound, mouth turning up at the corners. "But Lyla has always been smarter than that—she did some digging and found out that Lawton killed Andy. She shut me out after that. I didn't even know he was in the country until that assassination in the news."

It gives Felicity an idea. "I bet they have communication logs," she muses, already pulling up a screen on one of her computers. Her thoughts come out as words, muttered under her breath as she starts typing code. "What kind of secret government agency _doesn't_ have communication logs? And of course they'll be recorded on computer—no one realizes how much safer it is to go to paper in this day and age. A lot of hacking could be prevented if—"

"Felicity," Oliver cuts across her speech, sharp enough at the edges to pull her back, but soft enough to let her know he isn't irritated. Then she feels him leaning over her shoulder, and his breath tickles her ear when he speaks again. "What are you doing?"

One corner of her mouth tilts up in a mischievous smile. "Just decrypting the ARGUS communication logs," she states casually, more focused on her work than her words. Then it hits her. "Oh, God, I'm hacking into a secure federal agency that handles national security matters. Even though my intentions are noble, I've still technically upgraded from garden-variety hacker to cyber-terrorist." It doesn't stop her, but it's still a sobering thought. "And something tells me that Guantanamo Bay is not a place I'd enjoy spending the rest of my life."

She feels more than hears Oliver's chuckle against the back of her neck. "I don't think you have anything to worry about," he assures her. "They don't send blondes there." The teasing in his tone makes her smile at the rare attempt at humor.

"That's not very comforting," she mutters, fingers flying across the keyboard as she works at deciphering the code. "I'm not a natural blonde, Oliver. I dye it." His breath leaves him in a surprised huff, and Felicity has to stop to study his expression. "I haven't told you that before?" She points a finger at him. "And this would be a good time to remind you that I keep your secrets _and_ control your sex life." Then she cringes, turning around to face Diggle. "And I forgot you were here—I'm sorry." With a wince as she realizes the direction of her thoughts, she corrects quickly, "Not because I think you're forgettable. Of course you're not forgettable—you're John Diggle. It's me. I'm generally scatterbrained when Oliver is this close to me."

Digg only offers an unimpressed shrug and a partial smile, as thought to say, _I'm used to it at this point._ Turning back to her computer just in time to see the logs come up, Felicity continues, "Apparently Deadshot's broker just scheduled a new client meeting here in Starling. Except that, instead of meeting a guy wanting his wife dead, he's getting an undercover ARGUS contact instead." She turns. "I haven't found the location details yet, but it looks like Lyla set a trap for him."

"If you're going to intercept an ARGUS mission," Oliver starts slowly, "even one that's going to fail, you need backup. We're inactive right now—no one on the List is making a move, and they can wait until we get this guy." He shrugs. "If something does come up, we can always call Sara." Crossing his arms, he demands, "What do you know about the mission?"

Already shaking his head, Diggle answers, "Not much. Lyla shut me out before I could get any details about when they're bagging this guy." He turns to Felicity. "What can you find out from their communication logs? I'm sure they talked about the details there."

Felicity can't help but cut her eyes over her shoulder at him. "I'm seriously starting to wonder what it would take to impress you, Digg," she comments dryly. "I've barely been able to decrypt what little I have. It will take some time to go through the information discreetly enough that I _don't_ end up in jail—meaning I can't move it from their servers, make copies of it, or search through the massive pile of information." She frowns at the screen. "Meaning, apparently, I'm going to be reading about some idea called Task Force X for the next few hours." She frowns. "Let's hope it's as exciting as the mysterious nickname makes it sound."

In response for her troubles, Diggle drops a hand on her shoulder, showing that maybe he's a little more impressed than he lets on. "Thank you, Felicity," he answers with a smile. "Lyla isn't my only ARGUS contact—I'll see if I can cut your time reading about unimportant information by poking and prodding." He grabs his coat, rising to put it on. "And, besides, it will make them think I'm still using my contacts for information, not using one to hack into their servers."

The sound of Oliver's cell phone ringing follows Diggle's exit, and he frowns at the screen for a moment before answering. "Yeah," he says into the phone as a succinct greeting that makes her very glad he typically uses her name as greeting. It's not exactly friendly. Then his eyebrows knit together. "Tommy." The word is soft and gentle, and it takes Felicity a moment to place the tone. Finally, she realizes it's similar to the one he used to use under the synthesizer the first few times he met her as the Arrow. "You're not making any sense. Try again." Then after a breath, he mentions far too casually, "Edward Rasmus? He's on the List."

Felicity knows firsthand that when the List is involved, it's never a good sign. Something seizes in her chest, hoping it's nothing serious while, at the same time, trying to imagine every possible scenario that could have happened. She's already into the absurd—ninja attack—by the time that Oliver's expression turns pained. "What about Taylor?" is the next question, and it causes her stomach to do a flip in worry. It's followed shortly by Oliver's deep sigh of relief, which makes her mirror the action. Finally he answers his friend with, "Of course," before ending the call.

He doesn't even wait for her to ask. "There was an issue with Laurel's clients," he answers the unspoken question. "They were testifying against Edward Rasmus, but apparently he hired a hitman." The pause in the space lets her know that said hitman succeeded. "Taylor made it out, and he's going to be staying with Laurel and Tommy until his grandparents make it into town. It's only a matter of time until he tries again for the kid—Rasmus isn't the kind to leave loose ends." He hesitates, but Felicity already knows the question.

She only picks up the bow from the table and folds it into his hand. "'I'll be here when you get back from Laurel's," she assures him. "Keep them safe." It causes him to take another deep breath of relief that she doesn't quite understand. Instead of asking about it, she only presses her lips to his. "Try not to stay out too late—Thea might get the wrong idea." She frowns. "Well, the right idea, but one she probably shouldn't have."

When he turns to the display case to get his bow, she adds, "Oh, and try not to break in through a window this time."

 

* * *

 

Though he's been on edge all night, Tommy's edginess fades away when the cop at the door mentions checking in for Mr. Lance. Lieutenant Kessler doesn't sound like a horrible person, and he thinks that he saw a shadow looming outside the window—one that has a quiver on his back. Tommy never thought he'd see the day when he was _glad_ to have a vigilante best friend, but it has arrived.

That feeling disappears when Laurel turns with a wide-eyed expression. "Get Taylor and get down—we need to go," she whispers in a panic. Tommy opens his mouth to protest, but she's faster. "The number on the badge he showed me started with a zero. Lieutenant badge numbers start with—"

What they start with, Tommy isn't able to hear before the door bursts open. He scrambles for Taylor, pulling him between the couch and the window with a hand over his mouth. The kid stays still, locked into place with wide eyes, as Tommy's eyes search frantically for Laurel from under the couch. All he can see are dark shoes that definitely aren't Laurel's closing in toward the hiding place.

"It was the badge, wasn't it?" the man calls out, his voice oddly conversational and pleasant despite the fact he's a contracted killer. "I should have paid more attention to detail, since your father is a cop. I bet he taught you about that."

The next thing he hears is a blast—a very loud gunshot of some sort. It's followed by two clicks that make him realize it's a shotgun. Somehow the surprise that should follow realizing that his girlfriend is proficient with firearms is dulled by the crash through the window. He groans as Oliver's green boots crunch across the floor, "Did you really have to go through the window?"

Unsurprisingly, he's answered only by the _thwip_ of a bowstring being released twice, intermingled with intermittent whistles that he's recognizing as a gun with a silencer for the first time. Laurel screams somewhere in the background, and it takes all Tommy has to stay in place with the kid when all he wants to do is run to her. But still, he knows that he shouldn't leave Taylor alone, and that, hopefully, Oliver is close by.

After a long moment that's far too silent for Tommy, Oliver calls through the synthesizer, "It's over, Tommy—he escaped." When the former billionaire rises to his feet, it's to watch Oliver carry Laurel to the couch. "She knocked the gun away from him, but he knocked her against the table." Only then does Tommy see the trickle of blood at her temple, but his best friend is already applying pressure with a towel from the bathroom. "Are you all right? And Taylor?"

Tommy honestly doesn't know how to answer that question, but Oliver seems to understand the lack of response. "Taylor is fine," he assures his friend, gathering the kid up in his arms as he decides this would be an excellent time to sit down. Sitting down seems to make everything a little better, even though a cold chill seems to come over him.

After a moment, Oliver seems to take notice, picking up the blanket from the back of the couch and handing it to Tommy. "You're going into shock," he states calmly, as though he's talking to a frightened animal. "It should pass in a minute."

He can't help but snort. "Sounds like you have some experience with this," he notes dryly. Then he thinks that maybe Oliver _has_ had experience; God knows he's probably been through enough shock to last a lifetime over the past few years.

"Felicity usually takes it better than this," he admits with a lift to one corner of his mouth, a teasing smile spreading across his features. Other than the green hood and the quiver, it reminds Tommy of the old Oliver, one that he's starting to realize isn't completely gone.

Before Tommy can respond, Oliver turns the bow at the front door, pulling back the draw as his posture immediately goes on high-alert. The door is kicked in, and he barely has time to wonder why Oliver isn't firing when he recognizes the figure. Oliver lowers his bow at the same time that Lance lowers his gun, the two starting at each other for a long moment. "Fancy meeting you here," he says finally, and it surprises Tommy that he doesn't seem interested in handcuffing one of his most wanted.

"Laurel is fine—injured, but she'll come around in a few minutes," is Oliver's only response. "But the assassin will come after them again. Especially now that they've seen him. You need to keep them somewhere safe until you catch him—and Rasmus. No doubt he paid for the hit."

Maybe it's the shock, but the idea hits Tommy immediately, and he's out of better suggestions. "Oliver," he says suddenly, and the quick turn of Oliver's head is masked when Lance turns back to him, too. "We could stay with him." Lance frowns, and Tommy continues, "The Queens have more armed security than the President, and the house is made to be defended. It's a castle."

"I'm hoping you have another friend named Oliver," he growls, but then he softens. "I'm not fond of the idea, but if it keeps them safe, we'll do whatever it takes." It's clear the decision isn't an easy one for him, but he seems to be at peace with it. Though it seems to be one hell of a sacrifice, Lance also seems very willing to make it for his daughter.

Tommy actually jumps when Oliver speaks up this time, forgetting that his voice is coming out under the synthesizer. "My friend is currently staying with the Queens," he adds helpfully, while also being careful not to mention Felicity by name. "If there's any trouble, she knows how to contact me." Lance's brow furrows in confusion, probably wondering why he's so interested in the situation. As if to answer the unspoken thought, he continues, "Laurel assisted me with a few missions. I chose to stop working with her after Vanch, but that doesn't mean I won't protect her, Detective." It's a nice lie, one that keeps from exposing Tommy's involvement.

Lance scoffs. "As much as I hate to admit it, I could probably use your help on this one," he growls. Then he frowns. "And, if you had any sense, you'd keep your girl away from that Queen kid.” Tommy can’t help but notice that Lance won’t mention her by name either; it seems to be an unspoken agreement between the two. “He’s trouble, and he doesn’t give a damn who his collateral damage is.” He makes a face, as if the next sentence tastes bad in his mouth: “At least _you_ usually manage to get your people out of danger after you pull them into it.” It sounds almost like a compliment to Tommy, even if it is a little backhanded.

“She makes her own choices,” Oliver replies with a shrug, and Tommy has to admit, he dodges the awkward secret-identity thing with aplomb. Maybe it’s because he has a lot of practice with this situation, or maybe it’s just how he feels on the subject. “And I’ve tried to warn her before. She chooses to ignore me.” He’s smiling by the last words, and Tommy doesn’t think he’s joking. “I’ll stay close until this is resolved.” He turns to his friend with a concealed wink that Lance can’t see from his angle. “Good to finally meet you, Mr. Merlyn.” He almost makes it to the window before turning around to Lance with an almost cocky smile. “Am I free to go, Detective, or are you going to arrest me?”

The detective scoffs. “I’m not going to arrest you tonight,” he qualifies, before taking on, “God help me. But get your ass out of here before I change my mind.”


	53. Integration of Old and New Hardware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity enjoys a relaxing morning. But, well, we _all_ know how long those last. Give it about five seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last two playlists should be up on Spotify soon. I'm having some issues of the super-slow-computer variety right now.
> 
> This chapter played out differently than I expected, but the muse writes what it wants to write. :) I hope you all enjoy it. Any feedback is appreciated immensely, but so are you for taking the time to read this at all. ;)
> 
> **Just something to think about for the time being:** I don't think you'll see any week skips in posting from this point forward. Because of my now-about-to-be-crazier schedule, I'm going to spend a lot of the summer traveling. So I'd like to see this finish up about late May to mid-June. Just in case you were wondering. ;)

As Saphira sniffs the ground in front of her with a wagging tail, Felicity wonders when she's had a Sunday this relaxing. She hasn't had a chance to read that book on new firewall encryption procedures since she bought it months ago, and the chill in the air has subsided enough to venture outside for the warmer weather. Of course the Queens have expensive patio furniture in the garden, but she has to admit it's the nicest lounge chair she's ever draped herself across.

Because Saphira isn't on a leash (there's no point—she never wanders too far), Felicity keeps an eye on her, watching with mild amusement as the little dog wanders over to the pond. Felicity had noticed earlier that it's stocked with brightly-colored fish, and apparently Saphira is making the same realization, staring into the water with her head tilted to the side while pawing at the water.

With a smile, she shakes her head and turns her attention back to the book, only to find coding no longer at the forefront of her mind. Instead, she wonders how things are going with Oliver and Diggle in their reconnaissance mission. Sometime between last night and early this morning, Felicity decoded the logs to find that the plaza complex in the downtown area was the arranged meeting location. With the meeting tonight and time of the essence, they had decided to scope out the building in broad daylight to find the best locations for stopping Deadshot. Mostly it involved a lot of military jargon that she didn't understand, and she knew that she'd only slow them down, so she decided to get some sleep while she could manage it.

Yet here she is at eight a.m., already up two hours, rising as though she's had more than three hours of sleep. She's starting to think that Oliver's insomniac tendencies are rubbing off on her. As far as Felicity knows, he hasn't slept in thirty-six hours. She thought it was getting better since he was managing four hours a night at her apartment, but now he's back down to two or three—if he even sleeps at all. Felicity can't help but think being home has something to do with it; the Queen mansion seems to bring out the worst in him. It's obvious in the lack of personality in his room and the way he spends as much time away from it as he can.

A soft bark brings Felicity out of her thoughts, her eyes snapping up. It isn't a growl and Saphira isn't tense like there's a threat, but it's simply a warning that something else is out there in the shrubbery. She scans the scene around her, but she doesn't see anything. Still, the hair on the back of her neck prickles like a bad horror novel—which is followed by the reminder that she really needs to stop reading those before bed.

Just when she's convinced it's her overactive imagination, a soft female voice calls out, "It's just me, Felicity." It takes her a moment to place the subtle familiarity of it, but then she realizes she's never heard it without a synthesizer. Before Felicity can respond, a woman in a Starling Rockets cap and baggy, non-descript clothes steps out from behind a particularly tall tree.

When she can finally find her voice again, Felicity wonders aloud, "Is there a secret, let's-scare-Felicity club I'm not aware of? Because, if there is, you, Oliver, and Tommy are honorary lifetime members." The corner of Sara's mouth turns up, and it's only then that Felicity realizes she's spoken. Another thought crosses her mind. "You don't need to be here—Laurel and Tommy are supposed to be here today."

"That's _exactly_ why I'm here," Sara corrects, stepping closer, but still keeping some of the foliage between her and the house. "Someone tried to hurt my sister. Dead to the world or not, I'm not going to let something happen to her." She crosses her arms, and Felicity knows better than to try and talk Sara out of this. It wouldn't work, anyway. "I know Oliver is out of the house right now, so I'm going to keep watch while he's gone. You won't even know I'm here."

Felicity's thoughts fly out of her mouth. "Well, if this guy is as bad as they say, it might be nice to have someone around who can actually fight. Somehow I think even Saphira would take down Tommy, and I'd rather not have a repeat of the last time I tried to fight an assassin." She bites back a grimace. "I don't mean to make this an awkward, current-girlfriend-versus-the-ex thing, but if you need anything, I'm staying in the room across from Oliver's. Feel free to drop in if anything comes up."

Sara actually laughs at that, for reasons Felicity doesn't quite understand. "I'll keep that in mind," she assures her. She turns to disappear back into the shrubs trees, but then she stops. "And thank you, Felicity." When the woman in question turns her head to the side, Sara continues, "Everyone wants answers and feels the need to ask questions. It's nice to meet someone who doesn't."

Before Felicity can respond, Sara is gone. It's an impressive trick, Felicity can't help but think; one minute, Sara is there, but with the blink of an eye, she disappears like she was never there in the first place. "Note to self: Apparating is a thing," she mutters under her breath. Wherever the hell Sara spent the last three years since she fake-died the second time, it must have involved badass ninjas who practice magic.

With a sigh, Felicity rises to her feet, knowing she won't be able to stay out in the garden any longer. Now that Sara was able to sneak up on her so easily, it feels vulnerable instead of peaceful. She calls out to Saphira after grabbing her book, and the dog runs toward her, trying to catch up. They trudge up to the patio together, and she picks up Saphira before entering the house. Though Mrs. Queen already said it was okay for the little dog to run around the mansion, no way is Felicity going to test that theory. She still isn't convinced that Moira Queen _can't_ burn the world down with a snap of her fingers.

She sighs at the convoluted hallways she has to take through the mansion, hoping she can at least find her way back to the den. If she can find it, the staircase back to her room is easy enough to find. She really never should have tried to explore the house without Oliver, but she was trying to find the library again. Somehow she ended up near the garden instead, and she decided the sunshine would do her some good. Judging by the wet paws on her shoulder, Saphira had enjoyed it, too—even if the poor fish hadn't.

When she finally turns into the den again, she stops short before entering. Tommy is draped across one of the armchairs with a sleeping Taylor across him, smiling while Laurel and Moira seem to be staring at a photo album. She doesn't feel like she should be a part of this moment. For the first time, she understands everything Moira feels she lost when the boat went down: Tommy and Laurel, in their own ways, were part of her family, and Oliver was the link that joined them all together. Without him, it probably fell apart, didn't feel the same without him.

At the same time, though, she understands why Oliver can't spend any time here. He's not the same person as he was before the island, and Tommy and Laurel remind him of the old Oliver. Though he's never said it, Felicity thinks he doesn't particularly like the man he was, and she's not sure she would have liked him, either. She knows he doesn't like the person he's become, either, but he doesn't want to be reminded of the version of himself he hated. Maybe, Felicity thinks, all of his memories here are tainted by that. Now she understands Oliver's dilemma: he can't stand to be at home, but nowhere else feels familiar.

Tommy's eyes flick over to her, and Felicity realizes too late that she needs to move. "How did I not know you had a dog, Smoaky?" he asks her, his voice quiet to prevent waking Taylor. Before she can answer, he continues, "I had a dog when I was a kid. His name was Arthur."

She can't help but roll her eyes. "Arthur and Merlyn—how very original of you," she replies dryly, deciding to sit down now that all eyes are on her. "This is Saphira. She likes baby carrots, goldfish, and Oliver." She waves a hand before placing it back on the dog in her lap. "Not necessarily in that order."

Then she turns to Laurel. "I heard about what happened last night—are you okay?" She motions to her own temple as a way to point out the stitches there. "Those stitches had to hurt. Not to mention the whole…" She trails off, waving her hands around as she realizes she probably shouldn't know all the details. "Thing," she finishes lamely.

Laurel breaks into a genuine smile. "Well, he knocked me into a table and I passed out," she explains, "but the Vigilante was there." The way she drops it makes Felicity wonder if she's supposed to ask for more details, but she'll address them to the Arrow herself. "Tommy said he ran the guy off."

"It sounds like a terrifying experience," Moira cuts in smoothly. "Attacked by one killer, only to be saved by another." Felicity manages to keep her expression neutral, but Tommy isn't so practiced; fortunately, no one else seems to notice. "But thank goodness he was there last night."

Surprisingly, it's Laurel who speaks up. "He isn't a killer, Mrs. Queen," she insists vehemently, in an impressive display of bravery. Felicity wouldn't talk to Moira like that unless she wanted to come home to a waiting assassin. (She's also convinced that Moira Queen knows a good hitman or two, in addition to that burning-the-world-down-with-her-mind theory.) "He may be dangerous," Laurel admits, "but he's trying to protect this city. And he's helped me on several cases before. The Vigilante might be fearsome, but I've never worried about him hurting me."

Felicity has to bite back a snort because the last word she would use to describe Oliver is _fearsome_. Even before she knew who he was, he lost all scary factor when he flinched while she yelled at him. Though she isn't blind and she knows that Oliver is capable of violence, it never even occurred to her that he could lash out against anyone who didn't try to harm him first. The idea is almost laughable.

Clearly unsatisfied with the turn of the subject, Moira chooses to turn the page of the photo album instead. Felicity can barely see the photograph from her place in the chair, but she'd guess it was taken before prom or a college formal night. "This is one of my favorite pictures of you two," she says with a note of affection in her tone. "You looked so happy here." Felicity wryly thinks that maybe Oliver _did_ inherit something from his mother other than the grr-don't-cross-me vibe because he isn't very subtle, either. (In addition to the flair for the dramatic—she doesn't think he would dress up in a green hood and fight crime with his archery skills if he didn't have some fondness for drama.)

Then Moira places the finishing touches: "I think Oliver liked who he was when he was with you. He told me once that spending time at your house made him feel more like himself and less like Robert Queen's son."

To Felicity, it's a heartbreaking turn on her theory why Oliver stays away from home, something that apparently started long before the island. There must have been a million expectations within these walls, rules and expectations and demands to behave properly. No wonder he and Thea both lashed out in any way they could; growing up under a microscope makes her own childhood look uncomplicated.

She may have grown up in a foster home with four unruly boys, but at least she always knew she was loved.

Some of it must show on her face because Tommy replies, "I think Ollie and I were always trying to run from something as kids." His voice is soft and thoughtful, displaying a side of Tommy that Felicity rarely has the opportunity to see. "Things like responsibility and expectations and adulthood." He glances over at Felicity before turning back to Laurel. "But I think we should have tried running _to_ something instead. I've found what I'm running toward."

Then he glances back at Felicity again before saying, "And I can only hope Ollie has found something to run toward, too."

 

* * *

 

With a sigh, Oliver pulls the chair out from the dining table, taking a seat next to Felicity. Something about the dinner makes him think about the first one after her returned home—and the disaster it was. At least this time things are different—Tommy knows the truth of what Oliver does every night now, and somehow has managed to accept that. And, of course, Felicity is by his side—Felicity, who knows more than anyone else about the island, who accepts him without any judgments or questions.

As if to punctuate that thought, Felicity reaches under the table to place her hand on his leg in comfort. Without a word, she understands how difficult this is for him to be in the dining room with all of these people to lie to, and it's a nice comfort he doesn't expect. He covers her hand with his own in thanks, which earns him a secretive smile in return.

Thea seems to notice from the other side of the table, but she doesn't seem to understand the gesture and dismisses it. Tommy, Laurel, and Roy don't seem to pay any attention, the former two talking with Moira. His mother's watchful eyes miss not a thing, though, but she seems wary of the gesture. Originally he had dismissed Felicity's concerns because Moira has a tendency to be aloof, but he thinks that she might just have a point this time.

Though he lost the vein of the conversation earlier, he tries to pick it up now, listening to his mother's voice. "…and so you decided to try your hand at parenting?" she asks with a smile clearly aimed at Laurel. No doubt she's referring to Taylor—the boy who is playing upstairs with a full stomach after Raisa cooking for him all day. Oliver thinks that Raisa needs a child around the house to spoil all the time.

Laurel shakes her head. "It wasn't about wanting to parent," she answers. "I love children, but I have no idea how to take care of a boy who just watched his parents' murders." She smiles slightly, turning to look at Tommy. Oliver knows that he should probably feel something toward his ex-girlfriend, but all he can bring himself to feel is happiness—she's happy with Tommy, and that's good enough for him. "But Tommy has been amazing with Taylor." Turning back to Moira, she finally admits, "With his grandparents in Melbourne and this assassin out there, we just couldn't watch him go to child services. Sometimes I wonder if he would have been better off with them than us."

"You made the right choice," Felicity interjects quietly, and all eyes turn to her. Oliver touches her knee under the table, where her hand rests, and laces his fingers through hers. He may not understand much about her time in foster care, but he knows she doesn't talk about her time. In his experience with the usually verbose woman, that usually means it hurts to talk about it. "The tragic thing about child services is that it's all about finding a home with no regard for the home or the child's happiness." She looks down at the place setting before adding with feeling, "No one is better off in the system. Oliver can only imagine what sorts of hell she found there—it's one of the things that keep him up at night. He can't help but squeeze her hand under the table.

Tommy's eyebrows narrow for a moment at the passion in her voice, and then his face relaxes in realization. "You were in the system," he breathes. It isn't a question—or worse, an accusation—but instead a statement of fact. Oliver appreciates the fact that Tommy's voice is neutral despite the thoughts that must be rolling around in his head. Finally he goes with a flippant, "That must have sucked."

Felicity pulls her hand from Oliver's to pick up the fork on the table, twirling it around in her hand. "I don't like to talk about it," she answers slowly. "The first two years were rough—I mostly bounced around from home to home until I made it to Starling City." Then a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Then Mrs. Nagorski decided to take me in, and it wasn't so bad anymore." Finally she looks up at Tommy, her face serious. "But I was lucky. Not many of us are."

Leaning his elbow on the table in a way that makes Oliver cringe due to years of table etiquette with his mother, Roy faces the rest of them with raised eyebrows. "She's not kidding," he agrees. "I bounced around for five years before I found Mrs. N. I was trouble, sure, but so were most of the homes I lived in." With his hoodie draped across the back of the chair and the short-sleeved shirt, Roy's hand gesture draws Oliver's attention to his arm. For the first time, he notices the small, circular scars on the top of his forearm, and Oliver can't help but wonder who put them there.

Laurel's brow creases for a moment. "You mean Enid Nagorski, right?" she asks Felicity suddenly. "My dad worked Juvenile Division for one shift when he was doing double-shifts three years ago. He said that she was always there taking care of her boys—getting them out of trouble or giving them more, depending on the case." Her eyebrows narrow. "I thought he said that Mrs. Nagorski only took troubled boys."

It causes Felicity to wave a hand. "She did. She was very specific about that," she agrees. "She only wanted problem cases and boys—because most of the time, she could straighten them up." Felicity throws a wry look at Roy, and the corners of his mouth turn up as he admits nothing. "But, I guess she saw something that made her want to make exceptions on two occasions." She shrugs. "If you knew Mrs. Nagorski, you'd understand—she was a very private person. But I was the only girl—obviously—and Barry was the only one who wasn't a problem case."

Oliver wonders for a moment if anyone hears the implication in her words. It doesn't last long before he finds himself coming up with reasons why _Felicity_ would be designated as a problem case. Apart from a sense of justice that surpasses legality—a quality he rather likes about her, for obvious reasons—he can't come up with anything. But, then again, he didn't know her then, and part of him will always be glad he didn't. The man he'd been before the island wouldn't have recognized anything as unique as Felicity Smoak, let alone appreciated her.

Before he can transition the subject away to better dinner conversation, Raisa carries in the main course. As always, she remains silent as the grave through the service, and no one even seems to pay attention to the service. Thea chatters to Roy about the meal and which fork to use. Moira, Tommy, and Laurel continue to talk about Taylor. It's a common practice that Raisa is seen as invisible—one that never has sat well with Oliver.

If he thinks about it, Raisa was probably more of a mother to him than his own ever was. Moira often dismissed her motherly duties onto the woman, and it was Raisa who filled that role. Raisa was the one who read to him as a child, the one who helped him with his homework, who was always proud of him despite his shortcomings. Because of that, he never thinks of her as the invisible fixture in the household that everyone else seems to ignore.

When she places a plate in front of Felicity, he finds that maybe he isn't the only one who isn't content to let her hard work go unnoticed. "This smells amazing," she says immediately, and Raisa seems genuinely surprised. It only increases when she asks, "Did you make this, Raisa?" Rarely does anyone even think to ask for her name, much less remember it afterward. When the woman nods, Felicity continues, "Well, it looks and smells amazing—thank you so much."

Raisa only smiles, and when she moves to place Oliver's plate, she speaks to him in Russian. Ever since his first slip, she's embraced his knowledge of the language without question, and Moira and Thea seem to think Raisa was the one who taught him. Neither he nor Raisa has bothered to correct them. "She is a nice girl," Raisa approves in her native tongue, in the same tone she often spoke of the other women he's brought back to the house over the years. With a little more weight, she adds, "One worth keeping."

His answer is a smile and a simple declaration in Russian. "I intend to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Nothing You Can Live Without, Nothing You Can Do About" - Mayday Parade  
> "Show" - Neon Trees  
> "Beyond the Veil" - Lindsey Stirling  
> "Memories" - Within Temptation  
> "The Reason" - Hoobastank


	54. Driver Installation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity is overworked and underpaid. Well, duh—he doesn't pay her anything for the whole Arrow side-business. But that's not the point, and it's just an expression, sheesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it be! ;) We have one more thing left to tidy up in 1.20 Home Invasion, and I'm kind of looking forward to it. But for right now, thank you all for the love on the past few chapters. If you choose to leave me feedback here, it's greatly appreciated, but I simply love to know that y'all are still reading along with me. :)

Despite the many situations Felicity has found herself in since joining Oliver, she doesn't think she's ever felt quite this nervous or stressed. Even as she rests her fingers on the keyboard and sinks into her chair, her hands shake on the keys and she bounces her knee under the desk. She has a bad feeling about this, a sinking in her stomach caused by the idea of what could go wrong.

"I don't know about this, Oliver," she says lowly into the headset at her ear, voicing her reservation for what feels like the millionth time tonight. "I can barely keep up with one mission, let alone two. I know you think I'm up to it, but I can't follow two missions at once. And, unfortunately, those moralist spoilsports banned human cloning, so you're stuck with me at half-capacity." She tilts her head to the side in thought. "Then again, that whole clone thing didn't work out too well for Sarah Manning or the Doctor."

She knows he's probably irritated since it's no less than the tenth time she's expressed that thought, but yet he still manages to chuckle. His new-and-improved tracker puts him in en route, and she's never been so glad to see a green dot in her life—especially since that whole debacle with the Count. "I'm not sure the world knows what to do with _one_ of you, Felicity," he answers with a smile in his voice. The synthesizer mixes with the wind and the roar of the bike in an odd fashion over the line, blending the two together. "And I'm pleased with the one I have." Then his voice sobers, growing more serious. "Both missions are routine, so there shouldn't be anything to monitor. Sara is going to stop Rasmus from leaving the country, and Digg and I are going to ensure that ARGUS takes Deadshot tonight."

As if sensing the need for his reassurance, Diggle adds in his calm tone, "Everything's going to be fine, Felicity. That's why the two of us took this mission together—so that it _would_ work out without incident." To Oliver he adds, "I'm in position but hanging back—the last thing I want to do is spook this guy. Somehow I don't think someone known as 'Deadshot' is going to go down without a fight."

Felicity bites her lip, surprised when an idea hits her like a lightning bolt. "There may not be two of me," she starts slowly, "but what if I called in Roy to monitor you and Digg, Oliver?" The more she mulls over the idea, the more she likes it. "You two aren't likely to have as many issues because there are two of you—not to mention you're used to communicating with mission control." Then Felicity bites her lip again. "No offense, Sara—I just meant you're new to Team Arrow."

Oliver manages his typical grumble of _Stop calling it that_ , but Sara doesn't seem to have an issue with the name. "I'd rather have someone used to running an op for my first solo mission," she agrees as Felicity types out texts to Tommy and Roy, who is working upstairs, on her phone to let them both know what is happening downstairs. "Besides, it makes it feel more like a girls' night out." Something in her tone indicates subtle humor, and Felicity wonders if the dry sense of humor is an island thing or if she had it before.

"It does get lonely down here in the sea of testosterone sometimes," Felicity can't help but agree. "Which makes having another woman on the team a very positive change." She cringes when she realizes how that sounds. "No offense, Digg. I don't feel like I need to say 'no offense' to you, Oliver—I think you know I like you."

"That has come to my attention," he answers in a dry tone.

With the knock on the door that follows, Felicity doesn't have time to respond to his sass. Instead, she checks the cameras before allowing Roy access into the lair. "Okay, boys and girl," she calls into the lines, "Roy is here, so codenames only. Sara is Canary, Oliver is Arrow, and Digg is…" She trails off, unable to think of one off the top of her head. Apparently the naming thing is more stressful than she realized.

"Freelancer," Diggle responds immediately, as though it's already at the tip of his tongue. "I assisted with some missions outside my unit when I was in Afghanistan, and that was always my handle." Felicity has to admit, she likes the ring of it—and how misleading it is. It makes Digg sound as though he was contracted for a single job, concealing his place in Team Arrow.

"You need me for something?" Roy calls from behind her, and Felicity nods once. "I don't know if I can help you with that thing he's working on now, Blondie. I'd help if I could, but I doubt anyone in the Glades could afford to hire the guy who's after Tommy's girlfriend."

Before she answers, Felicity holds up a comm over her shoulder, using her other hand to continue typing on the computer in the middle of the grouping. "It's dangerous to go alone—take this," she quips over her shoulder. As soon as the comm is out of her hand, she places her hand back on the keyboard to continue typing. "We have the whole assassin angle covered. Not naming any names, but _someone_ "—she throws it in for Oliver's benefit, knowing he can hear her on the comm link—"who wears a lot of green leather thought I could run two missions at once tonight. And while I appreciate the vote of confidence, even _I'm_ not that good. So you're running comms for the Arrow tonight—pull up a chair."

He does as she asks, sitting at the computer to her left with an expression of extreme reluctance. As he places the headset over his ear, he says, "I'm not sure about this, Blondie. "I can use Google and Twitter, but that's about the extent of my computer training."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, this is a Cobalt-encrypted workstation," she announces proudly, but she doubts anyone else on the team knows what that means. "You better not use it to tweet." With a smile, she points at the screen. "I'm putting you on the mission with the Arrow and Freelancer. They're…" The word eludes her, so finally she tries again. "They're _assisting_ in an ARGUS mission, and they're old pros on communicating through this system." She winces at the way that sounds, waving a hand. "Well, not _old_ —they're both relatively young." Roy quirks an eyebrow at her, informing her that she's not making her case. "I mean, the Arrow isn't that much older than I am. Though I don't really care about societal norms, we have a socially accepted age gap between—"

Oliver's synthesized voice crackles through the comms, calling her name as a reminder of her original topic. It makes Roy jump, as though he isn't expecting it to hear it through the headset yet. "My point being," she states, trying to bring herself back to the topic at hand, "that they will know what to do and how to direct you to me when I split the comm links." She points to the screen on the left computer, to the green and white dots on the black map of Starling. "The green one is the Arrow, for obvious reasons, and the white one is Freelancer. If one ask for the other's position, you can help guide them—the trackers are accurate to several feet."

Then she points to the two patches to the right side of the screen. One shows a blur of Starling City's streets, while the other is in the plaza building. "These are the feeds for the wireless cameras I worked up, and they'll help you see what's going on. If you lose a tracker or a camera feed, check in." She pats his shoulder. "There shouldn't be any surprises—it's a routine mission.

"In the meantime," Felicity continues, "I'm going to be assisting the Canary with a solo mission. It's also routine, but it has more potential to go wrong because she's on her own." Then a thought occurs to her. "Does anyone have an idea for Roy's codename? You can't really say 'Roy' out in the field." Then it occurs to her. "Speedy. You're Speedy tonight." He throws her a scathing look, and she shrugs. "That's what Oliver calls Thea, and it will be something you recognize."

He doesn't seem to like the idea, judging by the scowl on his face, but, mercifully, Roy doesn't argue with it, either. "Alright, boys, I'll talk to you after all of this is over. Freelancer, be careful out there and don't take any risks." It's one of her fears that his personal issues with Deadshot will make Diggle do something stupid, sacrificing his well-being in the name of vengeance. "Arrow, be careful. If you take a poison bullet tonight, I'm going to be severely pissed—as in, the same kind of pissed I was when Barry decided to use one of my hard drives for an experiment."

Roy winces next to her. "I remember that," he starts in a quiet tone. "That was just after I got there, and I thought you were going to kill him. I wouldn't even look at you for a month after that because I was afraid you were going to go off on me." To Oliver, he adds, "Don't know if you've noticed this yet, Arrow, but your girlfriend can be scary as hell when she wants to be. I'd avoid the whole bullet thing for that reason alone."

Oliver chuckles in the background but wisely chooses not to answer. Felicity, on the other hand, shrugs. "All of my boys know it's how I show my affection—including you, Roy." Then she cuts the line, leaving her only with Sara and Roy across from her.

The line is quiet after a comm check to make sure everyone is connected, with only her camera feeding information in a rush of color. After a long moment, Sara's voice picks up. "It's showtime," she warns Felicity, and then the sound of a horn blaring breaks into the line as she veers over in front of the car. A scuffle follows, and then the camera's angle goes haywire before staring at the front of the car and the concrete.

It takes her a minute to realize what happened. "Canary, you lost your camera in the fight. I don't have a visual on you." She pauses. "Well, unless you count your boots—which I don't think I've noticed before, but they're really cute." Next to her, she hears Roy try to cover a chuckle, but she ignores him.

It draws her attention to him for a moment, watching him study the screen intently as his eyes narrow at the effort, She can hear Roy's soft voice communicating with Digg and Oliver, and the corner of her mouth lifts of its own accord. If she could ever convince her boyfriend, she thinks Roy would make an excellent member of the team. For now, however, Oliver Queen is perfectly happy to leave Roy in the dark.

Finally Sara's synthesized voice comes through the comms, her words soft. "Everything is fine, Oracle," she states. When her voice comes out again, it's twice as dark as Oliver's grr voice he uses as the Arrow. But, while his typically sounds angry, hers is cold and unfeeling, which sends a shiver down Felicity's spine. "Good evening, Mr. Rasmus," she starts cordially enough, except for the ice in her voice. "I don't think you know me, but I work with the Arrow." There's a long pause. "I think you know where this conversation is going."

Rasmus seems quick on the draw for someone in a position that would have Felicity shaking. Then again, she thinks, she didn't exactly cower the first time she met Oliver, either. "Let me guess," he starts dryly. "You want money, and if I don't, you'll turn me in to the cops." He sounds awful smug for someone in his position, Felicity thinks. "Go ahead," he taunts. "Throw me in jail. I own half of the cops in this town—I won't stay there long."

Sara doesn't miss a beat. "I don't think you understand," her voice cuts through the comm coldly. "I may work with the Arrow, but that doesn't mean we operate the same way. You hired an assassin to kill a seven-year-old boy—men like you don't deserve jail." A gagging sound comes through the line, and Felicity doesn't think it's Sara. "So if you don't call of your dog right now and turn yourself in, I will find you wherever you choose to go. I will follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to, and then I'll do to you _exactly_ what happened to that family. Except your death will be more painful."

It takes her a moment to recover from her surprise, but Felicity starts in as soon as she can find words. "Whoa, Canary," she barks into the line, "the Arrow _did_ tell you that we don't kill anyone, right? Even if they're assholes who send assassins after seven-year-olds, this isn't how we operate." Roy looks over at her, and Felicity waves him off. "Take it easy."

Sara ignores her, the silence punctuated by a slam and a grunt. "You have two hours," she warns Rasmus, and then the next sound Felicity hears is the bike revving. Before she can even start in, she says, "I was never going to kill him, Felicity. But men like that only respond to threats. I had to make him _think_ he had no other option." Her tone is calm, rational, and logical, making it difficult for Felicity to push the issue. But the cold voice Sara used when she spoke to Rasmus was cold and unforgiving, and she's spent too many months with Oliver not to know better.

But, unlike Oliver, Felicity knows that Sara would have slayed Rasmus on the spot.

 

* * *

 

"I have to admit, Blondie," Roy starts after taking the headset off his ear, "I don't think I realized how hard your job is." It's one of the most honest things he's ever said; he always thought that the Arrow's job is rough and that Felicity was the one who had it easy. But after tonight, he thinks that maybe her job is more complicated than his. Sure, the Arrow gets shot at, but Felicity is the one who has to coordinate everyone. "I think I'd rather get my ass kicked every night."

As she takes off her own headset, Felicity sighs, sinking deeper into the chair with an unusual frown on her face. The troubled expression leaves her face as she swivels to face him, and he notices for the first time that the circles under her eyes are a little dark. Maybe monitoring comms isn't just stressful for him. "Well, you weren't bad for your first time," she says with a weary smile, and he appreciates the honesty in it. "You fit nicely in this team."

He scoffs, unable to give voice to the words playing around in his head. If that were the case, they'd let him be a part of the team. He knows there are at least four of them on Team Arrow—the Arrow himself, Felicity, the mysterious "Associate," and the Canary—and he can tell by the way they sometimes stutter over codenames that no identity is secret between them. Roy knows he isn't exactly trustworthy, but he thinks he might have deserved to have the full picture by now. Usually it doesn't bother him, but every once in a while, he feels a little used.

Judging by Felicity's returning frown, she knows his thoughts anyway. She only confirms it when she starts quietly, "He's slow to trust, Roy." Biting her lip, she hesitates for a long moment, warring with something within herself. "He's never told me before, but I think that, before this team, everyone he ever trusted ended up betraying him in the end."

In a complete disregard for personal boundaries, she throws her feet in his lap, crossing her ankles as though she just randomly drops her panda shoes in his lap every day. "He wasn't going to tell me, you know," Felicity continues casually. Roy's eyebrows shoot up of their own accord, wondering if he understood her correctly. "He wasn't going to tell me his name, but then I became part of his team." She crosses her arms. "Personally, I think he's being ridiculous, but he wants to make sure he knows you before even _thinks_ about trusting you."

Though he doesn't like the status quo, Roy does appreciate Felicity's honesty. Still, it isn't something he wants to discuss. "What's going to happen with that guy the Canary threatened tonight?" he asks. "Because jail seems a little too good for him. And what about the assassin?"

"Rasmus is going to jail," the Arrow intones from the outside stairwell, stopping only long enough to fit his bow into place. Then he lifts himself onto the metal table behind the computers. "And, without a paycheck, the assassin won't bother them anymore." He frowns, the action darkened by the shading of the hood. "We don't have enough information to stop him, so it's the best we can do for now."

Felicity crosses then re-crosses her ankles, and Roy can't help but wonder why the Arrow isn't even acknowledging her position. "Roy said things ended well with your mission, too," she says, reclining her head back against the chair as she closes her eyes. "How mad is ARGUS right now?"

"His contact was upset," the Arrow answers, "but he managed to smooth things over. Handing them Floyd Lawton helped, and our friend is going to oversee his transport to a prison in Russia." Roy winces a little; the guy they captured may not be very nice, but neither are Russian prisons. Then his eyes dart over to Roy for a brief second before he adds, "If not, I can make sure it goes away. His contact answers to my former handler, and she owes me one."

It manages to make Roy feel like an asshole to hear the words after complaining about being left out of the loop only moments earlier. It may not be a name, but he knows it's a small display of trust. Not that Roy could do anything with the information—hacking federal databases is more Felicity's speed—but it's still something he probably wouldn't want to share to just anyone. It also serves to confirm a suspicion Roy has had for a long time: the Arrow is an ex-spook.

In a softer tone that he seems to use only for Felicity, the Arrow makes a quiet suggestion. "If you're tired, you can always use the cot in the back—you know that." Another thought seems to occur to him. "Where is the Canary?"

"She went back to the Queen mansion to make sure the assassin isn't going to try anything," Felicity answers, her voice starting to slur a little with a coating of sleep. "And _you_ know that I don't like that cot—the dubious Russian lettering on the back always makes me wonder if it was printed in blood or something."

The Arrow actually chuckles at that. "It's just the name of the company that made it," he assures her. His tone implies that they've had this conversation a number of times, but it's more a source of amusement than irritation, judging by the slight smile.

Roy picks up on the implication that the Arrow understands Russian, and then he remembers that bout of Chinese—or Mandarin, as Felicity called it—the last time they met. Somehow the thought comes out as a question. "How many languages do you _know?_ " he can't help but ask. Too late he realizes that the Arrow probably doesn't like questions too much.

To his surprise, Felicity scoffs across from him. "If you can get him to answer that, I'll empty one of these guys' bank accounts to pay you," she answers tiredly, not even bothering to lift her head up. Her mouth tilts into a smile, taking the bite out of her tone.

Because Felicity and the Arrow are so close, Roy had originally assumed she knew everything—the entire story behind the man under the hood, not just his name. But now Roy can't help but think that, maybe, she doesn't know much more than he does about the Arrow. He knows Felicity, and he knows it has to kill her not to know the Arrow's story, but she doesn't seem to be pushing too hard to find out the details. It takes him a moment, but after he finishes, he's comfortable with the conclusion: trust is a two-way street.

The Arrow shows his trust in Felicity by telling her his name, and she doesn't ask prying questions as her display of faith.

It's enough to prevent Roy from asking any more questions. It's been a long time since he's put faith in someone, but he's willing to trust the man who saved him—not just from a killer, but also from becoming another lowlife in the Glades. A little trust only seems fair at this point.

Before he can speak again, Felicity rises to her feet, nearly stumbling with the effort and the fatigue. "Unlike you, I can't stay awake for days on end," she says to the Arrow. Then she pats Roy's shoulder. "No offense, but get out—we have to close this place up so that I can get some sleep." She motions back at the Arrow as Roy rises from his chair to do as she asks. "If we don't get out of here soon, I'm going to collapse. Then you'll have to take me to bed yourself." Roy turns to look back at her because, well, _ew_. The Arrow's expression must indicate something similar due to the way she turns crimson. "Not in the fun way."

Roy just shakes his head. "I’m getting out of here before you two make me sick."


	55. Trojan Virus Removal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver entertains a guest of the uninvited variety. And by "uninvited," he means "psychotic killer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; I thought I’d have time to post before all the errands I had to run today, but I overslept like loser. :P At least I finished the semester this week, so (hopefully) I’ll get more time to work on this. We’ll see how that goes, though. ;) Thank you so much for staying with me through all the crazy! I always enjoy hearing from y’all, but thank you so much for just reading! :D

Oliver watches as Felicity pulls herself up the stairs to the Queen mansion, her expression unfocused as the fatigue wears on her. The past few days have been demanding, both mentally and physically, and he knows she's had too much on her plate. Between managing Saphira in a new environment, trying to work, and what he's put her through when he was in the field, he knows it's a miracle she was able to hold out this long without giving in.

In a show of solidarity and quiet comfort, he curves an arm around her waist, letting his hand rest on her hip as he pulls her into him. It earns him a weary yet grateful smile, and Oliver wonders again how the hell he got this lucky to have Felicity Smoak in his life. He understands that very few people could understand and tolerate his lifestyle, let alone join him in it. But the remarkable aspect is that she doesn't _just_ understand, she doesn't _just_ tolerate it, but she actually wants to help him. Though he'd never admit it to her, part of him thought that she would demand he give this up if they started any sort of relationship with her. Instead, she seems to accept it as a part of him, and, despite how difficult it is sometimes, she never says anything on the subject.

He means to express the thought to her, but the words don't seem to come out right. Words aren't his strong suit and his communication are rusty after all of the isolation, but actions have always been his strength. With that in mind, he twists her around to face him, cupping her face in his hand before kissing her. There's nothing sweet about it, the sensation somewhere between insistent and desperate. Felicity responds quickly and with enthusiasm, not even bothering to ask why.

Abruptly, she pulls away, looking down the hallway both ways before turning back to him. "Not that I didn't enjoy that, but someone might notice." She waves a hand. "Which, you know, wouldn't be good since Roy knows I'm with the Arrow. On top of that, I'm not sure what I did to be kissed senseless." Felicity glances down the hall again before rising on her toes to briefly touch her lips to his. "Maybe you should tell me so I can do it again."

Oliver intends to simply thank her for being herself, but the lights flicker before the house goes dark. He tenses immediately, knowing that the house was rewired just a few months before he left on _The Queen's Gambit_. To his knowledge, they haven't had any problems since, and it seems odd to him that they would start now, just after everything with Rasmus and the assassin.

Having apparently come to the same conclusion, Felicity sighs in defeat. "I'm not going to sleep much tonight, am I?" she asks him, and then she winces at the accidental innuendo. "Again, not in the fun way—I wouldn't be complaining about that. I mean in the possible-killer-on-the-loose way."

As much as he hates the implications of agreeing with her, Oliver knows that his instincts—and Felicity's—are correct this time. "Find Sara," he instructs her quietly. "We have something running around this house, and I don't think it's friendly. He had to enter somewhere—I'm starting with the front entrance."

Before he has time to do as he wants to, Laurel pokes her head out of the room, and Taylor and Tommy follow her out into the hall. "What's going on?" she asks, her expression half alert and half asleep. "Why is the power out?"

Oliver throws her a smile, hating the way the false smile feels on his face. "I think we just blew a fuse," he assures her, but it's clear that Laurel isn't buying it. "It's an old house—the wiring probably isn't equipped to handle this many used rooms at once."

He almost has her convinced when Thea steps out into the hallway, followed by Roy and a hundred implications that Oliver doesn't have it in him to deal with at the moment. "Ollie," she calls as reminder, "we had the house rewired a few years ago. That was to _prevent_ things like this."

Before Oliver can argue or the situation can escalate, Felicity steps forward, drawing all attention to her. "Oliver, why don't I help you find that fuse box—I have a flashlight in my bag just for situations like this." Then she throws a pointed look at Roy, then flashes it at Tommy. "Roy, Merlyn, why don't you two try to find some candles or flashlights in your room? I wouldn't wander too far—this house is like a maze, and the last thing anyone wants is to be lost _and_ in the dark."

Both seem to understand the hint, though Thea protests a little at Roy. As soon as both sets of doors close, Oliver turns to Felicity. "I want you to go back to your room," he says to her quietly. Before she can start to protest—because of course she isn't going to make this easy for him—he continues, "I know this house better than he does, Felicity, and the darkness is only going to impair his vision." He sighs, seeing further need to explain when time is of the essence. "This guy isn't prepared for a fight—he shut off the lights to make you panic. It's a scare tactic."

What he doesn't tell her is that he's used it a few times himself.

By the set of her mouth, it's clear she doesn't like this turn of events, but she nods after a long moment. "I feel like I'm wasting my time saying this to you, but be careful." Then she retreats back to her room, and Oliver doesn't move until he hears the lock on the door click into place.

Knowing that everyone is now locked away, he turns down the hall for the main entrance, trying to find the man who is causing this torment. He would have started at the entrance—near the closest breaker box—and, if it were Oliver, he'd check every room individually until he found what he was looking for.

It's an odd experience for him now; Oliver has been this monster, knows how the man would think and operate because of it. But the idea of being on the other side is different, carries with it an impending sense of dread. They know the assassin is coming for them and that it's only a matter of time before he finds them. Though he's never really understood the power of psychological warfare, Oliver has to admit it's effective in this situation.

But what the assassin doesn't know is that Oliver has been more afraid than this, has had to fight harder than this to stay alive. Now all he feels is a sense of urgency and necessity to eliminate the threat, the consequences be damned. There are too many people depending on him now, and he isn't going to let anything happen to them.

He turns the corner just as muzzle flare lights the pathway, the distinct whisper of a silencer cutting through the air at close distance. Knowing that surprise is on his side, Oliver strikes, using the wall as leverage to knock the assassin back a few feet. It's followed by a quick jab to the throat that the man somehow manages to block, and a few kicks.

Because he knows the house, Oliver understands the advantage of that. The ornate arch in the doorway is something he can use for leverage, so he does, pulling himself up by the lip of the arch during a dead run. The momentum keeps him moving forward, and both feet crash into the assassin with full force. It knocks him toward the stairs and the alcove, and it gives the vigilante an opportunity to use those in his favor, too.

What Oliver doesn't expect is that the man is a fighter. He'd made the grave mistake of assuming the man was simply a hired gun, but it's clear that isn't the case after the assassin gains his bearings. Oliver catches a blow to the stomach that knocks the breath out of him, and the assassin uses that to his advantage to land a few more kicks and jabs. The last kick sends him stumbling backward, into one of the windows on the upper tier, letting the moonlight illuminate the scene.

The assassin immediately recognizes him, his eyes widening as he takes in Oliver for the very first time. "What happened to you on that island?" he asks in a soft yet incredulous tone, curious but not overly so.

After he opens his mouth to speak, the realization hits Oliver hard: _I became just like you_. The island and the three years following turned him into a killer, into someone who couldn't afford luxuries like mercy. In another life, he could have _been_ this man, if he hadn't met people like Diggle and Felicity who helped him find what little humanity he has left.

A pair of black boots crash into the assassin from behind, and Oliver knows who it is before the silver bo staff twirls through the air and knocks the man off his feet. "Maybe you should be more concerned about what's going to happen to _you_ ," the threatens through the synthesizer. The end of the staff points at him like a spear, a warning that requires no words.

The assassin is quick, though, and he uses one foot to throw Sara off-balance. She recovers quickly, but not quickly enough that she could block the gun the man attempts to pull. Oliver, however, is more prepared to act, and he charges the man to push him to the side. It sends both of them over the edge, crashing into the table underneath. Oliver pushes the other man ahead of him, using the assassin's body as a cushion.

White light erupts in the corner of Oliver's vision when he lands, and he knows automatically that the crack over the head is going to leave a concussion. His arm isn't much better—probably dislocated—and, judging by the red at the corner of his vision, there's a cut bleeding over one eye that the adrenaline prevents him from feeling. Even that, however, isn't strong enough to keep him from feeling the ache in his ribcage; something there must be broken or cracked.

Even though the assassin is in much worse shape, judging by the limp, he still manages to scramble to his feet. Oliver isn't far behind, but the other man knows to go for the injuries. Pain shoots through him when the assassin lands a jab at his sore ribs, sending Oliver stumbling away from him.

As he's gearing up for another round, Oliver hears a familiar whistle through the air, and he realizes what it is too late. One of the pokers from the fireplace pushes through the other man's chest, red blossoming in his white shirt. He crumples immediately, and Oliver turns, panting, to Sara. "You didn't need to kill him," he rebukes. "This isn't the island anymore, Sara."

Her face never changes. "You're welcome, Ollie."

 

* * *

 

Quentin Lance can't help but let out a low whistle when he sees the scene laid out before him. While he's relieved the assassin didn't hurt Laurel or the kid, he has to admit the kind of glee that seeing the Queen mansion like this gives him. The place is a junkyard, with a busted staircase railing, several broken tables, and a few scuffed-up walls.

Honestly, he wishes the asshole had done a little more.

With everyone gathered in the main room, he walks into a situation he's not sure how to handle. Laurel is sitting next to the proof of her horrible judgment—Lance still can't bring himself to call the Merlyn kid by name, or worse, her boyfriend. But, the detective has to admit, he must be good with the kid in his arms, the one who clings to him like Merlyn is a life raft and Taylor is in danger of drowning. The purse-stealing hoodlum—Roy Harper, Lance vaguely remembers—shares an oversized chair with Thea Queen, both of them looking a little rattled

Harper's eyes cut over to Felicity for the third time, and Lance follows his gaze to find the damnedest thing he's ever seen. While he knows that Felicity is awfully cozy with the Queen kid, this goes beyond Lance's expectations. A line of red is apparent on his forehead, and Felicity keeps dabbing at it with a paper towel between suturing it up. Where the hell she got the suture is a mystery to him, but she does it as though she's an old pro, like she does this every day.

Then Lance notes her side-job, and he thinks she just might.

It goes beyond expectation, really. He thought she was a computer whiz, the one who kept the Arrow on track and did a lot of digging through cyber information wherever she could find it—even SCPD servers. (He doesn't have any proof and the hacks are clean, but Lance _knows_ that it's Felicity who keeps pushing through the defenses of their best techs. He'd be pounding down her door under different circumstances, evidence or no, but, well, the Arrow is doing more good than harm these days.) Never did he expect that she'd be involved in the messy aspects, like patching up the Arrow after a bad night. Now he realizes he just might be wrong.

The younger Queen sighs loudly as Oliver lets out a quiet _ow_. "We could have gone to a hospital, Ollie," she states as though she's said it recently. "You didn't have to be all macho and let Felicity patch you up."

"It's just a bump on the head," the Queen kid assures her, his voice sounding as though he's told her that before. "I'm just glad Felicity knew how to patch it. There was no point going to the hospital for this."

With a roll of her eyes, Thea mutters, "I forgot about your weird thing with hospitals." Lance perks up at that, finds it interesting. Why the hell a silver-spoon-fed Oliver Queen wouldn't want to go to a hospital, he doesn't know. It reminds him of some of the criminals they capture—they won't go to a hospital because they have to report certain types of wounds. But, judging by his complaining about the suture in his head, hardened criminal Oliver Queen is not.

As a way to call attention to himself, Lance walks into the room with a statement aimed at Felicity. "Looks like you're doing a good job there." She turns to look at him, then turns back to her work with her tongue poking out between her lips in concentration. "Where did you pick up a skill like that?"

If he expects a full confession, he doesn't get one. "I grew up with four foster brothers in the Glades, Detective," she says to him casually, as though she's talking about the weather and not what was probably a difficult upbringing. "All of us learned how to do this." She nods over her shoulder. "Well, except Roy," she corrects herself. "He doesn't really do needles. And he was the youngest of our group, so he didn't have to deal with the rest of us much."

If she's lying, Harper doesn't contradict her. But, then again, Lance knows from his shifts in Juvenile that foster siblings are a complicated group; even if they hate each other, it's some sort of unspoken agreement that they'll stand together against an outsider. Still, he thinks it's interesting that the two of them grew up together and turned out so differently on paper: Harper, the petty thief in and out of juvie, and Felicity, the MIT graduate who doesn't even have a parking ticket on her record.

In Lance's book, though, they're both criminals—even if Felicity _is_ trying to make the city a better place.

He grunts noncommittally at Felicity's explanation, hoping to imply that he doesn't believe it. "This is the second time I've had to remove a dead body from this place," he notes toward Felicity and Oliver. "What is it with you two?"

"I have a theory: I think I'm just a magnet for all things dangerous," Felicity answers casually as she ties off the suture. The ease with which she does it makes Lance think she's done it a few times since childhood—if she _did_ know how to do this as a kid. "And I think Oliver has the worst luck in the world, so when we're in the same place, it's just a recipe for disaster." Her tone is so cheerful that it makes it difficult for Lance to believe she's serious, even when her expression suggests she is.

After she finishes with the suture, the Queen kid finally starts to speak. "We lost power," he explains his sorry state, "and I thought that we'd blown a fuse. I went down to the breaker box to see if I could figure it out, but the…" He motions toward the entrance and the dead man they moved. "… _man_ in there attacked me. He threatened me, demanded I give him Laurel's location." He hesitates. "When I didn't, he hit me over the head. I thought he was going to kill me, but that's when she showed up."

Pausing at the feminine pronoun, Lance stares at the man in front of him. "She?" he repeats in confusion. He'd assumed that the Arrow was involved in this, that he would be the one to stop the attacker. After all, he said he'd keep Laurel safe in light of their previous work together, so it only made sense that he'd be the one involved.

Oliver nods once before continuing. "It was a woman," he answers slowly. "She was wearing a black outfit and mask. She had some sort of… stick or pole that she used to fight him. When he disarmed her, she used the poker on him."

After throwing a sidelong glance at Felicity, Lance watches her nod ever so slightly. The girl is one of hers, then, part of their ever-growing merry band of vigilantes. Though he's not thrilled with the idea of another murdering vigilante out there, he understands that the Arrow will police his own and that they trust the mystery woman enough to let her into this mission. Maybe it's because he's grateful his daughter is alive, but Lance feels the need to give her a pass—just this once. "Well, whoever she was, she saved my daughter's life. That's enough."

Surprisingly, Queen is the one who speaks up. "She saved all of us, Detective."


	56. Wireless Signal Rerouting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Arrow time in the lair, now with 100% more Saphira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/1LrQ99gVR3EXwbGuyMsXBE).
> 
> Gah, a migraine destroyed my morning post schedule, but the good news is that we've just hit on 1.21 The Undertaking and all the fun that goes with it. :D It's one of my favorite episodes, so I'm pretty pumped with what's happening. But, as always, I'll let y'all judge the results of this week's writing. I'd love to hear what you think, but thank you just for reading! :)

For the very first time, Roy Harper finds himself alone in the Arrow's base of operations, and he can't believe his luck. He never thought he'd ever be privileged to know the code into the basement, but Felicity had texted him with it earlier in a brief message: _We need your help tonight. 1141. Let yourself in, but don't touch anything._ It had taken him a moment to realize what the string of numbers was, but, sure enough, when he'd entered them in the keypad on the door, it had opened immediately.

Of course, he'd expected to find _someone_ there to greet him—either Felicity or the Arrow himself, but it's empty. Judging by the empty spot on the table where the bow and quiver usually sit, the terror of Starling is already out in the field taking down unsuspecting bad guys. The door to the downstairs bathroom is open, and he can see men's clothes strewn across the floor—a gray shirt and a pair of black jeans, nothing special—and he figures they're the Arrow's street clothes. For not the first time, Roy wonders who the Arrow is when he's not wearing the hood, and the generic clothes give him a small view of that.

If he had to bet, he'd say that the Arrow was from the Glades and grew up hard. It only makes sense in his mind; after all, the Arrow's appearance has mostly benefited the Glades thus far, and he'd have to have a connection to it somehow. Growing up in the streets would explain how he knows how to fight—every kid, especially boys, learns a little something about defending themselves to survive in the Glades—but it doesn't explain the bow and arrows.

Actually, _nothing_ in Roy's book explains the bow and arrows. None of the high schools in the Glades have an archery team, so it wouldn't be something he picked up. Only a few of the preparatory schools have competitive archery teams, and that seems like a contradiction to Roy: if the Arrow grew up in the Glades, he wouldn't have had the money for a private school. Even if he had, someone who learned in high school wouldn't have the accuracy that the Arrow does. Everyone Roy talks to says that the Arrow never misses, and he's inclined to believe it. It's more likely that he's from a family of survivalists or hunters—people who would have taught him how to shoot since childhood—but people like that don't typically come to Starling City, where there's nothing to hunt.

Footsteps echoing on the metal staircase in the back draw Roy's attention, and he locks onto the familiar flat shoes with pandas on them. But what _isn't_ familiar is the black and white blur that charges down the stairs in front of her, and when it stops at the foot of the stairs, he realizes it's Felicity's tricolor shiba. Before he can ask, Felicity starts in a breathless huff, "Sorry, I was trying to repack all my things so that I could move back into my apartment." She stops at the bottom of the stairs, taking a deep breath to gather herself. "Thanks for coming—I could really use your help tonight."

As her dog happily sniffs the new environment, Felicity walks up to the computer desk and hands him a comm. "The Arrow is already out in the field," she informs him absently as she pulls up the same screens from the last time, camera and GPS signal, "and I need someone to run comms tonight." She looks at him with a slight smile. "You did such a good job last time that we could use your help again."

He takes the Bluetooth receiver from her hand, then hooks it over his ear as he reacquaints himself with the computer system. The video feed is still going strong—a blur of Starling City—and the GPS tracker puts him heading out of the Glades. No doubt he's going after another crooked CEO tonight. Not that it offends Roy—crooked CEOs typically make their millions by screwing the Glades somehow.

He pulls his gaze away from the computer screen, watching Felicity get settled at her end of the desk. She takes a few seconds to plug connections into a laptop, and then she starts pulling up windows and typing what looks like nonsense to Roy into them. "No offense," he starts slowly, "but isn't monitoring comms supposed to be _your_ job?"

Felicity doesn't seem to take offense at his wording. "The Arrow took this laptop off of a money launderer last night," she explains. Roy knows about the whole Harold Backman—he may have… _liberated_ a police radio so that he could keep up with the Arrow's missions. "He wants this information as soon as possible to return money to swindled clients before we hand it off to Detective Lance, and I'll work faster if I can focus completely on it." She sighs. "I'd usually pass the comms to our associate, but he's out of town right now."

She finally looks at him, probably seeing the discomfort he feels. "I know monitoring comms is stressful, but think of it as an opportunity to prove yourself. In my experience, the more you work with the Arrow, the more trust you build." She turns back to the screen with a slight smile on her fuchsia lips. "And maybe he'll finally realize that I'm right and you could be a useful part of this team."

Finally he understands her logic calling him: she's trying to integrate Roy into the team—the way Roy _wants_ to be a part of this thing. It's been a long time since someone has helped him just for the sake of doing so, and the feeling is unfamiliar. Gratitude isn't typically something he feels around people.

He means to express it to her, to thank her somehow that doesn't feel weird, but something brushing his leg distracts him. He takes just long enough to think _Please don't be a rat_ before looking down at it. Instead of a rat, Roy finds Felicity's dog happily dragging the shirt from the bathroom between his and Felicity's chairs. She circles on top of it before settling, and Roy thinks that, for a dog, she looks pretty pleased with herself.

Then he remembers the way she stole the Arrow's hood before, and he can't help but wonder. "So," he asks Felicity with a touch of humor, "does your dog just randomly steal people's clothes, or is it just the Arrow's?"

She looks at him in confusion, then looks down when he points, her features turning into a frown. "Saphira likes to steal things," she starts, and her tone turns dry when she adds, "a lot like someone else I know." He doesn't miss the pointed glance aimed at his direction, and he can't help the huff of laughter that leaves him. "At least that makes her easy to live with," she continues. "If I can't find a shirt or a skirt, I can usually find it in her bed."

Roy chuckles at the turn of the conversation before remembering to unmute the comm. "If you need anything, I'm online," he informs the Arrow. "What's the mission? Felicity hasn't said." He looks over at her, typing wildly with headphones in her ears, as if she's trying to block out the rest of the noise. "And I don't really want to ask her right now."

If the Arrow minds, he doesn't say, instead answering the question in his modulated voice. He's so quiet that Roy can barely hear him over the background noise—probably the wind as he drives his bike through Starling City traffic at high speeds. "Tonight I'm paying a visit to Scott Morgan," he answers calmly, answering the question without reluctance or irritation. For not the first time, Roy thinks he could like this guy if he met him on the street; he doesn't seem as intimidating in person as the media would make him out to be. "Morgan runs water and power in the Glades and jacks up the prices in the winter and summer months."

A crackling sigh comes across the line. "I was going to go after him several months ago, but then the Royal Flush Gang decided to come to Starling City." In a quiet tone, he adds, "And, because I didn't, seven people froze to death this winter because they couldn't pay Morgan's exorbitant prices." Roy thinks he might be blaming himself a little for that, but he can't really understand why; it was Morgan's wrong, not the Arrow's.

"So, what," Roy asks carefully, "you think it was your fault?" The silence on the other end of the line answers his question more clearly than any words. "The one-percenters in this city feed on the Glades—they try to exploit us because they think we're uneducated criminals."

He scoffs. "What they don't realize is that _they're_ the ones who made us into this. We need jobs, so we drop out of school to work, and we can't make enough money to pay our bills because we don't even have high school diplomas. Some of us—me included—get desperate, and we try to find other ways to make ends meet in the only ways we can: with guns or drugs or by selling ourselves in the street. And we get stuck in the same place with no hope of getting out." With an intensity he's just discovering within himself, Roy insists, "You're the only one willing to tip the scale."

Roy jumps when a hand lands on his arm; he'd somehow managed to forget Felicity's presence—of all things to forget. Her headphones are strewn across the desk now, and she reaches over for the speaker unit, turning it on. "Don't even bother trying to talk him out of it," she instructs with a defeated sigh. "Blaming himself for things out of his control is the Arrow's superpower." She rolls her eyes. "Of course he'd get the lame one instead of super-speed or x-ray vision."

Then her attention turns to the speaker, talking into it rapidly. "I managed to decrypt Backman's laptop," she starts, then allows herself a small shrug. "Which, I might add, would have been nearly impossible for anyone else. You should have seen the protocols on this thing. It was—" The Arrow coughs lightly, and Felicity gets the point. "Not important," she finishes the sentence. "I found a series of deposits last night, and I didn't think much about them, but there was one in January—for two million dollars."

Roy can't see the point, but Felicity keeps talking anyway. That seems to be _her_ superpower. "It just so happens that it coincides with the date that Walter Steele went missing, and I thought it seemed suspicious. So I kept digging. Turns out a man named Dominic Alonzo was the recipient of the cash." She finally hesitates. "I'm not sure if it's a solid lead or not, but I have a very good feeling about this." Another shrug. "And, by 'I have a very good feeling,' what I _really_ mean is, 'I have a strong suspicion that Alonzo is about to find himself the proud owner of several new arrow wounds.' The point being that, if we're going to do anything about it tonight, you need to get back here. _Now_."

The Arrow's voice is tinny as it rattles through the speakers. "I'm on my way."

 

* * *

 

While Felicity has helped with her fair share of Arrow missions, she has to admit that the one she just discovered is more personal than the rest. The possibility of Walter being alive but kidnapped gives her something to hope for. Though she's glad for both Oliver's sake and Thea's, Felicity has to admit she has her own reasons for wanting to help Walter Steele.

The fact of the matter is that Walter trusted her with an impossible task, even before Oliver and the Arrow and the world she finds herself in now. If he hadn't found that book— _the_ Book—and asked for her help with it, he probably wouldn't have been kidnapped. And, instead of trusting a loyal employee he'd personally groomed for years, he'd selected her to help him. In part, it had been her skill set, but it had also been her loyalty and her ability to be discreet that had caught Walter's attention. He'd trusted her when he had no proof that he should have, had absolutely no reason to do so.

Felicity thinks she might owe him one for that.

After she terminates communications with Oliver, Roy turns to her with a thoughtful expression. In her experience, that's never a good sign—at least when it comes to Oliver's secret identity remaining secret. "So," he starts slowly, "how is Walter Steele's kidnapping any of our business?" He winces, as though that was a little more abrasive than he intended and rephrases, "I mean, I thought the Arrow only went after high-profile targets and one-percenters."

Felicity doesn't quite know how to answer that without giving everything away, so she settles for something more subtle than the truth. "The Queen family is under the Arrow's protection," she answers carefully. "It's one of the agreements we made when I started helping him, and that protection extends to Walter by association." It isn't exactly the truth, but it isn't quite a lie, either; instead, it falls into that vague, in-between chasm that seems to be engulfing most of her life these days.

"You and Tommy are also part of that agreement," she adds, hoping to get Roy off the topic of the Queens. "I wanted to make sure that you two were protected. Laurel is technically protected, too, but that's because she used to work with the Arrow some in the past." Roy's eyebrows fly up in surprise as she continues the thought. "That earns her some continued protection when trouble finds her."

Roy doesn't seem to be buying it. "If the Queens are under the Arrow's protection, why did he go after Mrs. Queen a few months ago?" he counters. If it were anyone else, Felicity would think they were trying to be difficult, but she knows it's in Roy's nature to be cynical and skeptical at first.

Fortunately for her, it's an easy question to answer. "Hey," she starts, and somehow she can't stop her desire to be defensive, "it was Mrs. Queen's idea to turn that into a bloodbath—she's the one who shot _him_ , not the other way around. The Arrow just went there to talk." She crosses her arms. "While my instinct is always to take the Arrow's word over everyone else, I also have a tendency to believe the guy who flatlined twice on the table is the injured party." Bringing it back to the original point of the conversation, she adds, "Just like I believe Walter is the injured party in this situation."

Before the conversation can continue, Felicity watches Saphira dart up the back set of stairs with a wagging tail. Maybe she should bring Saphira down here more often—Oliver isn't sneaky enough to walk in unnoticed by her, and that would certainly keep him from scaring Felicity. "He is the injured party," Oliver answers in that synthesized voice from the stairs, "and we're going to get him back."

It would be pretty intimidating under different circumstances, but, Felicity has to admit, the sight of him in Arrow gear with Saphira's front paws draped over the top of one shoulder kind of takes the bite out of it. She can't exactly bite back a laugh at the little dog just happy to see him in one arm, the bow in the opposite hand. "You know this would ruin your street cred if it got out, right?" she can't resist teasing him, and it actually surprises a chuckle out of Roy.

Oliver doesn't even dignify that comment with a response, only dropping the bow in its place before moving to sit on the metal gurney. He places Saphira on the table next to him, and she's quite content to curl up by his side. "Alonzo is going to be a complication," he starts without preamble. "When he isn't kidnapping people, he runs the biggest underground casino in the city." He frowns deeply. "But he staffs it with a private army—that's how he keeps cheating and stealing down. We need to find information on his bank accounts—find out who paid him to kidnap Mr. Steele."

Looking thoughtful, Roy adds, "It sounds like we need to access Alonzo's computer, but without setting off any alarms." After a moment, he adds to his idea. "If someone was caught cheating, the goons would definitely take them to Alonzo's office. He wouldn't think twice about it, either—someone's always trying to cheat the system, even when the risk of getting a bullet to the head is higher."

Felicity likes the idea; she could do this in her sleep. She started counting cards to help her mom with living expenses, and she's spent enough time in casinos to know how to get away with it. But, of course, she could get caught, too, if she needed to. "Looks like someone is going gambling tonight, then," she replies, leaning back in her chair.

Oliver turns to Felicity, already shaking his head, though not with the answer she expects. "They'd make me the moment I walked in," he says to her, and she knows what he means. Oliver Queen isn't exactly the type of guy to gamble in an illegal casino—not when he could have his jet fly him to Vegas for the weekend instead. "And the Canary isn't low-profile, either." Truer words were never spoken; having a dead woman walk into an illegal casino isn't really a smart move. Then he looks at Roy for a moment. "The guards at the casino wouldn't take you seriously because of your age."

"I wasn't talking about _you_ ," she cuts in. "Or the Canary. Or Roy."

It takes a moment for it to sink in, but the protests from both men are immediate. She ignores Roy's focusing on the man she needs to convince. "Absolutely not," he snaps instantly, and Felicity doesn't take it personally. He's been more adamant about keeping her out of the field since the whole Dodger ordeal, and she can tell by the way he mutters in his sleep sometimes that he still has nightmares about it. "You're in enough danger just by helping me with this, Felicity. I'm not going to put you in an illegal casino guarded by the worst thugs in Starling City."

"I lived in Las Vegas before I ended up here," she informs him, rising to her feet and walking up to him. "I've been counting cards since I was old enough to know how, and the Bellagio paid for my living expenses in college." She places her hands on his knees, leaning in so she can keep eye contact. "It's all probability theory and mathematics, and I'm _good_ at it." He starts another protest, but it dies on his lips when she cuts him off. "Look, Walter was good to me when no one else was. He trusted me when he had no reason to, and I feel like I owe him one. And now, for the first time, we have a chance at finding him."

Oliver looks away, wanting to avoid the fight, and she knows he's going to try and walk away next. She's long since discovered that's how he wins arguments with everyone else: he simply walks away from them and does whatever the hell he wants anyway. But Felicity isn't a pushover, and she's not going to let him run from this. She cups his face in her hands so that he's forced to look at her, whispering, "You have to let me do this, Oliver."

Even before he releases the defeated sigh, she knows he's going to cave. "All right," he agrees grudgingly, "but we do this my way, Felicity. I want comms, GPS trackers, and one of your pin cameras. I'll be outside the entire time, and at the first sign of trouble, I _will_ charge in after you—whether you want me to or not." His tone makes it clear he isn't willing to budge on this one, so she lets it go, even though it's overkill. Unlike Oliver, she knows when she isn't going to win.

So she takes what she can get, kissing him lightly in thanks. "Give me twenty minutes—I need to grab a dress."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Night Vision" - Lindsey Stirling  
> "Fallen Angels" - Black Veil Brides  
> "Kicking and Screaming" - All Time Low  
> "Someplace Better" - Elysion  
> "Heroes (we could be)" - Alesso feat. Tove Lo  
> "Uprising" - Muse  
> "Heart of Fire" - Black Veil Brides


	57. Installation of Hardware Bugging Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity goes gambling with somewhat unexpected results. But, then again, she _was_ cheating at cards, so it was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/2Hmp9j2KdrtR0goGeJRp3A).
> 
>  **Huge beginning note:** First of all, I apologize _profusely_ for the delay with this chapter. It's been a crazy week around here; I've been sick, my mom has been sick, my dog has been sick, and there's been a metric crap ton of travel to look for apartments. There simply was not enough time to write this week.
> 
> Which brings us to today's big dilemma: I'm already a day behind writing the next chapter because I had to finish this one first. Because of that, I honestly think you'd see better results in Chapter 58 if I have next week off. In addition to that, it will also give me some time to work on Chapter 59, which will help more in the long run. I've been trying to avoid taking a week off, but I think this is the time. So, just to prepare you: **no TA chapter next week.**
> 
> Again, I'm sorry about what happened with the chapter this week, and I hope you guys understand. You’ll see me again in two weeks— _hopefully_ back and better than ever. ;)
> 
>  **One last teeny, tiny thought:** A lot of you were wondering about Felicity saying Oliver's name in front of Roy in the last chapter. It was whispered, which means that Roy did _not_ hear it. Therefore, still doesn't know. ;) Sorry for the confusion; I thought the word "whispered" clarified it, but obviously not. Thanks for asking, and sorry I'm not getting back to you in an individual response basis.

Felicity takes long strides down the sidewalk to keep up with Oliver—and partly to work off some of the nervous energy. _Talking_ about going into an illegal casino to count cards is all well and good, but doing it is another matter entirely. She's probably chewed off half of her lipstick by now, biting at her lips the way she has. When that hasn't worked through the nervous energy, it's been a hand at her hair, making sure it covers the comm in her ear.

Oliver catches her hand before it can touch her hair this time, taking it in his own and weaving his fingers through hers. "Everything is going to be fine, Felicity," he assures her gently, and she appreciates that he's not using her indecision now to remind her that she doesn't have to do this. Even though he's not thrilled about the idea of putting her in danger, he at least has the courtesy to respect her decision. "I'll be right outside if anything happens." He holds up the bag in his hand as a reminder—the bag that holds his Arrow suit.

"Assuming, of course, I get a friendly warning and not a bullet," she blurts, wincing when the thought leaves her mouth unbidden. Trying to cover her gaffe, she continues, "Which I should—there's no reason why they should _shoot_ me for counting cards. That sounds like it would be bad for business. _I_ wouldn't want to gamble in an illegal casino known for killing people." She stops before amending her statement. "Well, I wouldn't want to gamble in an illegal casino, anyway, but no way would I want to think about it in a place where death and/or possible dying is something I have to worry—"

"Felicity," Oliver cuts in gently, reminding her that she had a point to her conversation before she let her mouth run away with her again. He stops her, placing his hands on either side of her face. Then he sighs, as though his next words pain him. "It helps to think of each step on its own," he offers, and Felicity decides that the _last_ thing Oliver wants to do is give her advice about fieldwork. "Right now, we need to get you in there, which is why I'm listening for the password." With no warning, he drops a demanding kiss on her mouth, rough and quick. "I'll be with you the entire time."

Not trusting words to serve her this time, Felicity nods once before pulling away. Saying goodbye would only make this more difficult, so she simply elects not to. Instead, she takes several steps forward, heading toward the lone streetlight in the dark in front of her to the casino. After the first block, she can't fight the urge to look back any longer, and, predictably, Oliver is no longer standing where she left him. But a quick glance upward quells her nerves; she's seen him in that hood enough times to find it, even when it's just a faint outline of a shadow in the dark.

"The password is 'snapdragon,'" Oliver supplies helpfully in Felicity's ear, causing her to jump slightly. His voice this time is flat without emotion, and she knows he's trying to focus on the mission to avoid thinking of what she's walking into.

"Roger that," she answers, trying to take up the tone he's set. Still an errant thought manages to make its way out of her mouth: "Or is it 'copy'? I thought they were interchangeable, but I'm apparenly the only one on this team who doesn't know military jargon. Or how to fight."

Before she can apologize for the words that just left her mouth, Oliver cuts in. "Can we have this argument tomorrow, please?" he asks tersely, but Felicity thinks the 'please' softens it a bit. "I'd like to get this over with."

Felicity huffs but doesn't say anything more, knowing he's just as nervous about this as she is. Instead of trying to argue or pick a fight, she focuses on the task at hand. Once she's taken a few deep breaths to help her make peace with what she's about to do, Felicity marches up to the guard and tells him the password with a smile. "Snapdragon," she says lightly, and only afterward does she realize she didn't even give him a chance to ask.

If the guard has issues with it, he doesn't notice. His eyes are too busy appraising her figure in a way that makes her decide she needs a bath when she gets home—and that maybe her smile is a little _too_ inviting. While Oliver may have done the same thing when he saw her in the dress for the first time, _this_ guy makes her feel like she's a pretty statue on a shelf: property that can easily be bought and sold.

She practically scurries into the open door to get away from it. Apparently, Felicity isn't the only one who noticed because Oliver says through the comm, "If I have to go in after you, he's getting the first arrow." If anyone else made the declaration, it would be rough and possessive, said with a fire underneath; instead, Oliver is clinical and detached. She expects the follow-up to be something like, _I didn't like the way he looked at you_ , but he continues, "He should have known that would make you uncomfortable."

Instead of answering, Felicity focuses on trading the cash Oliver gave her beforehand for chips. Where the hell he managed to find ten thousand dollars on short notice, she'll never know—the banks were already long since closed, and, to her knowledge, he never left the lair. Then she rolls her eyes before deciding he has an emergency hidey-hole in the lair, too. In fact, she's willing to bet that he has hidey-holes everywhere he spends a lot of time.

(She can't resist thinking that, even after they moved the suit out of the one he made in her closet, he insisted on stocking it with a burner cell, some cash, and a spare change of clothes for all three of them—her, Oliver, and Digg—despite her protests that it's in a _closet_ where she keeps _plenty_ of clothes.)

"I need you to be my eyes, Felicity," Oliver's voice calls, jolting her out of her thoughts. "Tell me what you see."

After taking a long scan of the room, she finally answers, "I see two pit bosses and a floor man. As far as the games go, roulette—worst odds in the casino, by the way—craps, _maybe_ a game of Texas Hold 'Em in the back, and—my personal favorite—blackjack." She frowns, mentally cataloguing what she sees different from an actual Vegas casino. "But no slots. Which, frankly, is ridiculous. How do you call yourself a casino without any lucky sevens?"

She shakes her head, not realizing that her nervousness is expressing itself via her mouth again. "And not because I like slots," she clarifies. "I don't. I don't like the random probability. But slots provide a purpose in a casino. They're attention-getters—they have flashing lights, and they make a lot of noise all the time. That makes gamblers feel like everyone is winning all the time, which is part of the psychological draw of a casino." Then she continues, "There's a science to it, you know. Everything in a casino is strategically—"

The sharp rebuke of "Felicity," comes to her then, with a little resignation this time. Oliver sighs softly before continuing, "Just try to relax. You're doing great." For not the first time, she's grateful that he understands her excessive talking is due to nervousness. Not a lot of people bother to cut her slack when it comes to that trait. His calm voice reminds her that she's not alone, and Felicity is increasingly glad that he's with her—even if it is just as a comm in her ear.

In the desire to express that thought, it somehow gets jumbled up with her nervousness, coming out of her mouth as, "It feels good having you inside me." Felicity immediately makes a face as she feels her face heat, and the answer from Oliver is a somewhat strangled, wordless call. "That is _not_ what I meant," she rushes to say, even though the damage is already done. "By 'you,' I meant 'your voice.' And by 'me,' I meant 'my ear.' I don't know why my mouth does this to me."

The line is silent for a moment, until Oliver finally manages to respond to her gaffe in an unfamiliar tone, "Tell me something I don't know."

Felicity trips over air as she realizes that he's actually _flirting_ with her. Teasing is so rare that she's come to appreciate it, but flirting hasn't really happened since he was using the hood to hide his identity. This isn't just rare; it's unheard of. She's so stunned by the moment that she can't even think of anything to say in response, only letting out a strangled cry of surprise.

Focusing on the task at hand instead, Felicity sits down at the nearest blackjack table. She throws a couple of hands to get a taste for the action. When she's certain her probabilities are correct, she starts betting big— _noticeably_ big. Each round doubles her payout, and each payout is used for the next bet. She knows it's only a matter of time before she'll call attention to herself, and it doesn't take nearly as long as she expects, the response time putting most Vegas casinos to shame.

She expects a guard of some sort to come up to her, but she's unpleasantly surprised to find Dominic Alonzo leaning over her shoulder. Casually enough, he comments, "You're doing very well tonight." Then he leans in as though they're old friends, and Felicity does _not_ appreciate the man in her personal space. "What's your secret?"

Felicity wouldn't consider telling him, even if she _didn't_ know he was the owner of the seedy establishment. So, instead of giving him what he's looking for she blurts the first thing that comes to mind: "I just hit when I feel pretty." Too late she realizes it's a little too flippant and sarcastic to be speaking to a shady guy involved with Walter's kidnapping.

It's the wrong thing to say, judging by the way Alonzo's eyebrows knit together. "Well, then, maybe we should discuss how pretty you are in my office," he retorts, rising to his feet. Suddenly two other guards are next to him, looming over her in a way that makes her feel like she does _not_ have enough protection around her. "Leave your chips on the table and follow me."

One of the guards reaches for her arm, and she immediately jerks away. "Don't touch me," she finds herself hissing at him. There's a note of warning in it, but, for the life of her, she has no idea what she's warning him about; it's not like she can do anything about it.

"I'm on my way in," Oliver responds immediately, in his grr-I-will-arrow-you voice.

The guard makes a move toward her again at the same time, and she holds up her hand. "Wait," she says to both men before turning back to Alonzo. "I'll go with you," she assures him. "Thing One and Thing Two can follow me to make sure I don't bolt, but _no one_ touches me." A huff comes from the comm—Oliver expressing his disagreement with the plan—but she ignores it. This could be their one shot at finding Walter, and she's not giving it up because she can't handle a little pressure.

Alonzo nods once before giving instructions to his goons, and, as Felicity follows him toward the back of the casino, she can't help but wonder if this is what prisoners feel like. Still, she manages to follow him into the office with minimal nervous babble—and to slide the bug onto the back of his computer as he sits down. "What's your name?" he asks her then, and Felicity doesn't think she has much choice but to respond.

"Meghan," she lies easily, using her middle name for cover.

"Meghan," he repeats in a tone so sweet it makes her skin crawl. With no warning, he changes the direction of the conversation. "Do you know what they do to people who try to scam the casinos in Vegas?"

She swallows immediately because she knows the stories all too well. "Of course I do," Felicity answers, paying little attention to her words. "The mob-run casinos would send messages—dead animals in beds, removing hands, that sort of thing. In extreme cases, they would—" She cuts herself off, not even wanting to _think_ about that. "And, you know what, I'm going to stop talking."

Alonzo throws his hands out in front of him, gesturing to her. "And still you come into my establishment and try to steal from me," he counters, "even though you know the risks." He laces his fingers together. "I should probably treat you the same way the Vegas crowd would, but, fortunately for you, I'm in a good mood today." Felicity bites back a retort before she ruins said good mood. "So leave your chips and go—and don't come back."

Because she's nearly tripping over herself in her gratitude, Felicity misses Thing Two stepping up behind her until she runs into him. Instead of trying to steady her, he pulls out an electronic device she recognizes instantly as cold dread worms through her. "Oh, and Meghan?" Alonzo calls from behind her, but no way is Felicity going to turn around with Gigantor in front of her. "One last thing. We'd like to check for electronic devices. Card counters rarely work alone."

This time she takes a step toward Alonzo, away from the frequency scanner. "You think I'd want to share my take with a partner?" she counters, trying to prolong the inevitable long enough to send a message. "I may be young, but I'm not _green_." She hopes he catches the message. "This isn't my first time counting cards in a casino."

"Give me five minutes," Oliver promises in her ear, and Felicity releases a breath she didn't even know she was holding. She doesn't exactly see herself as the damsel-in-distress type, but right now, he looks like a very welcome knight in shining armor. Too late, she thinks that she might have gotten in over her head on this one.

Alonzo doesn't even bother to answer, instead turning toward the guard and nodding. It takes all of two seconds before he pulls the comm out of her ear, smashing it beneath his shoe. Felicity winces at the fate of her tech before turning back to Alonzo with the most stoic expression she can muster. "My partner is about to completely _ruin_ your good mood," she informs him flatly.

The thought is punctuated by the muffled explosion at the front of the club.

 

* * *

 

While loosing an exploding arrow at the front doors to draw attention, Oliver pushes the first guard of what he's sure is to be many out of the way. His knuckles are going to ache later from punching the man in the jaw, but he can't really bring himself to give a damn about anything at the moment other than Felicity's coded distress signal. Of course, he was moving as soon as Alonzo mentioned a partner, but he had a bad feeling as soon as Felicity had told the guard not to touch her.

Now, however, the guards are focused on him, the explosion in the front drawing their attention away from the office. He doesn't even bother to engage them in an actual fight, instead sending arrows in the directions of anyone charging toward him and not running away from the explosion. It isn't exactly sporting or a fair fight, but Oliver finds those are luxuries he can't afford when Felicity is in danger.

When he's sure the guards in the main casino are down, he strides toward the office he saw on her camera with a cold determination he hasn't felt since the island—since choosing the arrow over the cure to stop Slade. Maybe he doesn't want to kill anymore, but he knows that he'd gladly put an arrow through someone's heart to keep Felicity safe. He shouldn't have let her go into this by herself, should have waited for Diggle to return to go with her.

He shakes his head to clear it, knowing those thoughts won't do. There's nothing that can be done now, except to deal with the consequences of his actions—and remind himself that Felicity volunteered for this.

With that in mind, he checks Felicity's video feed one last time to find a guard positioned in front of the door. The opportunity is perfect, so he launches another exploding arrow, sending the man flying into the opposite wall. The other guard goes down with a few swift punches and an arrow to the right shoulder, bringing Oliver's attention to Alonzo.

Apparently the son of a bitch has decided that pointing a gun at Felicity is his best move, but Oliver is inclined to think that it's yet another mistake. For her part, Felicity looks calm despite the end of the pistol pressed against her temple, except for the way her teeth sink into her quivering lip.

"Move and I'll shoot her," Alonzo threatens, but Oliver doesn't find himself in the mood to listen. Any bargaining power he might have had ended the moment he thought a gun to Felicity's head would answer his problems. So, instead of dropping the bow, he grips it more tightly.

Because Felicity knows him too well—uncomfortably well at times like these—she starts shaking her head. "Don't you dare," she warns him, in a tone not unlike the one she used on the guard earlier. " _No_. Not for me." She must read his expression and see that he has every intention of ignoring her because she follows up with one, quiet word he can't refuse: "Please."

"Let the girl go," he demands through a synthesizer, trying to time his arrival and her situation as two separate coincidences. Alonzo doesn't flinch, and Oliver sees no need to make another demand that clearly isn't going to be answered. Instead, he pulls one of the arrows, firing it into the wall behind Felicity and Alonzo.

"I thought you never miss," Alonzo taunts him with a smug smile.

Oliver actually allows himself a smile in spite of everything. "I don't," he answers firmly, not offering any further explanation. The way Felicity's eyes flick to the arrow make him think she understands what he's doing, and she confirms it when, seconds before the blast, she turns her head away and closes her eyes.

The blast throws Alonzo forward, but Felicity manages to duck at the last minute. Oliver ignores the criminal in favor of the blonde, pulling her out of the rubble by her outstretched hand. Unable to resist the urge to touch her, his hand cups her face. "Are you all right?" he asks her in a low voice.    An urgent nod answers his question, and he guides her away from Alonzo before resuming his mission.

Oliver hoists the man up by his lapels, throwing him up against the wall just below the arrow in it. "Who paid you to kidnap Walter Steele?" he demands to know from Alonzo, but the confusion on his face is too pure to be an act. "You were paid two million dollars in January to kidnap a man. I want the name of the man who gave you the money and where you're keeping him."

"No names," Alonzo answers finally. "We didn't exchange names, and I never saw his face." Then he scoffs. "But the man you're looking for? He was killed upon delivery." Oliver's blood goes cold, wondering if he can trust Dominic Alonzo to tell the truth about something like this. "I walked away, and there was a gunshot. Walter Steele is dead."

Not bothering to answer, Oliver throws a punch to render the man unconscious, then lets Alonzo drop onto his desk chair. He's about to look for something to tie him up when Felicity offers him a long piece of rope. "It was just lying in the corner," she explains. "I thought it should be put to good use." Her tone is somewhat somber, but they seem to agree that now isn't the time to discuss Walter. It's something to think about later, when they're back at the lair or home. Before he can ask again, she tacks on, "I'm fine, Oliver—stop looking at me like I could fall apart at any minute."

He does as she asks long enough to finish tying Alonzo to his desk chair, but then he can't resist the urge to pull her into his arms any longer. Felicity responds by wrapping her arms around his waist, her breath against his jacket shaky and halted. "Can I change your superpower?" she asks suddenly, and Oliver has to pull away to look at her. Then she clarifies, "I thought taking credit for everything that's wrong was your superpower, but I'm starting to think it's sucking the joy out of morally dubious activities. I'm never going to gamble again after this."

It surprises Oliver so much that a laugh escapes without his permission, and he can't resist kissing her. It's a habit he's developed over the past few weeks; the idea of her _wanting_ to be with him is so absurd that sometimes he needs to remind himself it's not a dream. "I can't say I'm disappointed," he answers finally. "I hope this is the last time you're in the field, too."

Based on the way she purses her lips, this argument still isn't over, and Oliver sighs before deciding that he's not going to fight with her tonight. They have enough to fight already, without fighting each other. Instead, he pulls out the phone he uses as the Arrow, dialing the one number he still uses it for. It rings for several minutes before anyone picks up, but finally Lance answers, "I was beginning to think you were going to leave me the hell alone."

Oliver doesn't bite. "There's an illegal casino on North Olive and Twenty-Fifth," he answers instead. "The owner of the establishment is Dominic Alonzo. You'll find him tied to his chair in the office." He can't stop himself from looking at Felicity. "If you'd like to make some points with the IRS, Oracle decrypted a laptop owned by Harold Backman that proves he's laundering money for a few criminals in the city."

"And it's not even my birthday," Lance quips. Then there's a long pause, and Oliver doesn't think the conversation is finished yet. "Want to tell me why you're bringing this to me? Technically, I'm supposed to be putting you in cuffs, not accepting evidence from you. And I'm not the only detective in the city." Oliver knows it _sounds_ like a simple question, but there's so much to atone for. Lance, more than either of his daughters in some ways, has suffered, and though Oliver can't fix it, he wants to at least try.

"Consider it reparations, Detective."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Moon Trance" - Lindsey Stirling  
>  "The Reckless and the Brave" - All Time Low  
>  "Bulletproof" - La Roux  
>  "If You're Gone" - Matchbox Twenty  
>  "Our Time Now" - Plain White T's
> 
>  **Also, friendly reminder that there's no TA next week.** Hopefully I'll have something for you to read in the interim, but we'll see. ;)


	58. Data Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver gets a blackbelt in brooding. Well, another one, but who's counting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me warn you beforehand that I'm punchy as hell and I probably shouldn't even be writing at the moment. It's after three in the morning my time, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up since I have an impromptu apartment shopping trip tomorrow. (Or today? I can't tell; my days are running together.) I hope everything makes sense (I read it twice, but, again, punchy), but I plan to look it over again tomorrow during part of the extremely long trip. Any adjustments on that front should be up Saturday.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, my lovelies! :)

Of the many things that scare Felicity, she has to admit that one of the worst is the text she received from Oliver earlier in the morning: _Verdant. As soon as you get off work._ It was somewhat unexpected, since he had been with his mother and sister after electing to break the news about Walter. She thought they'd be grieving together, which is why she's kept her distance today, but he only results to short, terse messages when something is _very_ wrong.  
  
Not even bothering to text him back, Felicity pulls her car into back section of the parking lot, as close to the back entrance as she can manage. If he's asking her to meet her at Verdant, there is no doubt in Felicity's mind that he means the lair instead, and that means Arrow business. She enters the codes on both keypads-the front door and the door to the basement entrance-and barrels in without giving it any thought.  
  
Then she stops abruptly when she realizes the lights are off.  
  
Confused, Felicity takes slow, methodical steps down the stairs to prevent falling on her face. After fumbling around for the switch for a moment, she finally manages. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the fluorescent lighting, but when they do, she nearly jumps out of her skin when she realizes she isn't alone.  
  
"Why the hell are you sitting around in the dark?" she snaps at him, mostly because of her own fear. He barely even responds to her question, instead choosing to stay seated in the floor in his Arrow gear with his back resting against a support beam. "This doesn't look good, Oliver." When he doesn't respond this time, something makes her stomach clench. "Either you've taken your brooding superpower to a new level, or..." She trails off, trying to find something that would get his attention. "Or you've realized that you've hit a new low by dating me instead of some supermodel and it's sent you into a catatonic state." She tilts her head to the side. "Right now, I'm leaning toward the latter."  
  
The corner of Oliver's mouth twitches upward, and Felicity lets out a sigh she didn't even know she was holding. "I was just thinking," he answers flatly, and she knows that tone. As he rises to his feet, Felicity notes with dread that it's his my-world-was-slowly-falling-apart-but-it-just-sped-up voice. She's never seen him show such raw pain, and her heart breaks a little for him.  
  
He looks away abruptly before turning back to her. "My mother acted... suspicious when I broke the news about Walter yesterday." He hesitates again, and his next words make her stomach plummet: "I remembered when you tried to warn me about her-when Diggle drove her around because he knew something was wrong." The admission doesn't come easily when he offers, "I followed her when she left the house, eavesdropped on her conversation." As though he still doesn't believe it, he finishes, "Walter's alive. My mother and Malcolm Merlyn had him kidnapped. If we trace the call he made at ten-thirty last night, we can figure out where. Merlyn is the one behind this, Felicity."  
  
Her initial reaction comes out of her mouth in a breathy, "Oh my God." Then she continues, "Tommy is going to be devastated." Then Felicity catches sight of his expression again. "Just like you are," she adds before cupping his face in her hands. "This must have been unbearable to live with all day. Why didn't you just call me? Or shown up at my office for lunch? All you had to do was say, 'Felicity, I'm here with Big Belly Burger, my mom and my best friend's dad are involved in kidnapping plots together, and I could really use a friend right now.' No questions asked." She pauses, tilting her head to the side. "It didn't have to be lunch, either. I'm told my boss is very lenient when the person pulling me away from my work has their name on the side of the building."  
  
A light, breathy sound leaves him before he quickly sobers. "I didn't want to trouble you," Oliver answers when he realizes Felicity is waiting for an answer. He doesn't offer any further explanation, yet she still finds it insufficient.  
  
"That may be the worst excuse I've ever heard," she answers flatly. "Oliver, we're partners in this... thing together, and it's my job to help you with it." Then she laces her fingers through his. "Beyond that, you and I are partners. That means we share our problems to make them easier to bear." She crosses her arms, her spiel finished. There's no need for her to continue any further; the look on Oliver's face informs her that her point has been made. "Now, what time did you say? Ten-thirty?" Before he answers, she turns back to her computer, sitting down in her chair.  
  
Oliver leans over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. "About that time," he confirms. "The call was made from Merlyn Global Group-the executive floor." Then he hesitates, gripping her shoulder tighter for a moment. "He must have showed her something-he said 'as you can see.'" Slowly, as if in thought, he continues, "It must have been something she could trust because she said that if Malcolm thought Walter knew anything, he would have had him killed-despite any arrangement they might have made."  
  
Hands pausing on the keyboard, Felicity thinks about that for a moment. "It would have to be a live feed of some sort for that to work," she voices her thoughts slowly, "which means that wherever Walter is being stored would need an Internet connection to access the feed remotely. Which means an IP address and a location. That might actually be easier than a phone number." Instead of the call logs, she pulls up the Internet usage for the building for the night. "Let's see... that one's too small to be anything other than checking email or basic Internet surfing." The second one looks more promising until she pulls up the Internet history. "That guy-or girl-is watching porn at work. Which, not only is against company policy, but also kind of weird to be doing in a cubicle at the office. I mean, I don't personally watch porn, but if I did, I'd do it at home in private. Maybe-"  
  
"Felicity," Oliver reminds her in a soft, albeit strangled, tone. She usually to think of it as his get-to-the-point-you're-off-topic-again tone, but the strangled quality makes her think of it more as a get-to-the-point-before-I-take-you-right-here tone.  
  
Unfortunately, it's also the tone that makes her disregard all previous thoughts, so she turns back to her computer, blinking at it blankly for a moment before remembering her purpose. The last log is the most promising. "Okay, here we go-video streaming from a security system in Bludhaven." She turns back to him with a frown after pulling up a map of the neighborhood. "It looks like tenement housing, based on the location."  
  
Oliver leans further over her shoulder, his breath tickling her ear as he asks, "Can we get an accurate view of the location?" He huffs out a breath. "You could do some kind of-"  
  
She stops him before he can embarrass himself with his lack of computer skills. "Oliver? Friendly reminder that I don't tell you how to sharpen your arrows." His silence is deafening as she pulls up a few minutes' worth of hacking. "There's an ARGUS satellite in the area-I think I can reposition it to find out what you need to know."  
  
Sensing that she needs time with her computer in peace, Oliver kisses her temple before pulling away. "Thank you, Felicity," he breathes in a quiet voice before his quiet footsteps fade into the background. At some point, she recognizes the distinct clang of a bar on the salmon ladder, but even that doesn't pull her away from her work.  
  
After a few hacks and about twenty minutes later, Felicity informs Oliver from across the room, "I have satellite stills for you." He drops from the salmon ladder immediately, and she doesn't bother to wait for him before continuing. "It is a tenement complex-one that seems oddly well-guarded." She pulls up a picture as he leans over her shoulder, showing two guards with automatic weapons. "It's like that at every entrance. The only entrance covered by a single guard is the roof."  
  
"So I go in through the roof," he answers flatly, as though it's the simplest thing in the world. "I can make quick work of the guard and slip in through the window. The hardest part will be finding Walter." Felicity can't help but admire the relaxed tone in his voice when he says it; Oliver's statement isn't born of arrogance, but of quiet surety in his own ability. The confidence is new, a recent change in Oliver that makes her think he's embracing his life as Starling City's Vigilante.  
  
A small sound of surprise tinged with amusement leaves Felicity's mouth. "While your confidence is one of the many things I love about you, that plan isn't going to work here. It's the tallest building in the area, so there's no way to reach the roof from another building." She pauses. "The only way to go in through the roof is to jump out of something. Like a plane." The look on his face unnerves her when she turns back to him, the silence worrying. "Which I do not recommend. It was just a hypothetical, not a suggestion."  
  
The silence is weighted for a long moment before Oliver says thoughtfully, "I think I have something. I know someone who has access to military stealth planes and owes me a favor." Felicity opens her mouth to protest, but he silences her with a single sentence: "This may be our only chance to save Walter."  
  
With that, all of her protests die away. There's no alternative to this, no other way to enter the building that would prevent trouble without making more work for Oliver. On top of that, his words remind her that Walter's freedom hangs in the balance-and how tenuous that is when in Malcolm Merlyn's control. So, for a very rare moment, Felicity keeps her mouth shut and nods with a grim expression on her face.  
  
Oliver hesitates a moment before dialing, as if to ensure she's really giving him permission. Then, he squares his shoulders, reluctantly picking up the Arrow phone as if he's about to make a deal with the devil. He dials a number that he must have memorized lifetimes ago, then pauses before typing in another set of numbers.  
  
It's quite some time before someone answers, but finally Oliver offers a terse greeting of, "Waller, it's Oliver. I need a favor." A pause then, "I need a stealth plane and a pilot who will keep their mouth shut in the next two hours." Another pause. "I can't fly it if I'm going to jump out of it," he answers Waller's statement, and anyone else would have accompanied the tone with an eye-roll. As it is, Felicity starts at the information; she didn't know Oliver could pilot a plane, giving her yet another new fact to add to the what-happened-to-Oliver-on-the-island-but-not-always-on-the-island list.  
  
Whatever the person on the other end of the line says next makes Oliver scoff, and a darkness enters his features that Felicity hasn't seen in a very long time. "This doesn't pay me back for saving your life," he spits, with more animosity than is strictly necessary, in Felicity's opinion. "This is payment for what you allowed to happen in Hong Kong. People _died_ because you let General Schreve take over an ARGUS operation. The least you could do is help me save one life now." There's another pause, and, judging by the way Oliver's posture straightens and the way he tenses, Waller's answer only serves to ignite his anger further.  
  
The last thing he says before hanging up is, "You turned me into a monster, Waller. I'm not sure you _can_ do enough favors for me to make us even."

 

* * *

 

Oliver lands on the highest point of the roof, stumbling slightly with the force of the landing. Throwing his hands out in front of him, he manages to balance in a crouched position, the roofing tile hot through his gloves even in the cold night air. Slowly he brings himself up to his feet, then takes a few careful steps forward to the eave that he's looking for. A quick glance below shows the guard communicating with another location, so he waits for an opportunity.  
  
Unfortunately, waiting also gives him time to think about many things. The one he pushes immediately to the back is the one of his mother involved in Walter's kidnapping; even now that he's seen proof with his own eyes, he doesn't want to believe it. But he can't stop one thought from circling: Felicity was right-he shouldn't have involved Amanda Waller. Even now he can't stop thinking of the atrocities he was forced to commit under her reign, and it brings up memories better left in the past.  
  
Finally, the guard below him moves, and Oliver seizes the opportunity for what it is, dropping onto the other man without a sound. A swift punch is all it takes to knock him unconscious, and Oliver rises to his feet as if on autopilot. He reaches for the door without much thought, but Felicity's voice in his comm pulls him out of the robotic way he's charging toward his goal. "There are camera feeds all over this place, Oliver," she warns him. "If you give me a minute, I can feed them old footage on a loop so that no one will notice your entrance."  
  
While the option is the logical one, Oliver still finds himself shaking his head. "No," he says flatly. "I want them to know I'm coming. It will be easier to dispatch the guards now without having to protect Walter in the process." The only negative to the plan is one he doesn't voice: one of the guards could easily dispatch Walter before Oliver can reach him. There may be a variety of guards stationed throughout the complex, but it's a relatively small building.  
  
Besides, Oliver is quite confident he's faster than they are.  
  
As predicted, it isn't long before he meets his first guard, the man charging him with a knife from one of the dark corridors. Oliver easily dodges it, grabbing the other man's knife hand and smashing it against the concrete wall so hard that he can feel the crunch of bone giving way. The other man screams, understandably, but another quick punch ends that quickly enough.  
  
Two more are on him at once, both easily dispatched with kicks. Another with loud footsteps turns the corner behind Oliver, but he whirls in place, drawing the bow and firing an arrow into his right shoulder. He drops to the floor in agony at the same time another charges from the other direction, and Oliver doesn't hesitate to give him the same treatment.  
  
Three more join in the fray, and Oliver uses the narrow hallway and the confusion to his advantage, using the wall to gain enough momentum to land a hard kick to one guard's chest. He crumples on the spot at the same time that the next man is thrown over the vigilante's shoulder-and on top of the previous guard. The third man throws a few punches in the midst of the chaos, but none of them strike home. In fact, the last one gets him into trouble, the close proximity to Oliver allowing him to wrench the man against the wall and slam his skull into the wall twice.  
  
The man in the green hood stops for a moment, listening for more footsteps. When none echo off of the narrow halls, he continues his search for Walter, his steps quiet as he checks each room individually. Each is empty, only adding to his growing despair. Against his better judgment, Oliver is starting to believe Alonzo's words-that Walter truly is dead and nothing awaits him down here other than a corpse and a lot of wasted time.  
  
It's only then that he sees the heavy, steel door with a bolt through it, locking from the outside in three different places. Fortunately none of them require keys, and Oliver slides each one open with growing senses of dread, desperation, and hope. The last lock slides open, and he takes a deep breath before turning the handle.  
  
What he expects to find is a decaying corpse, but instead he finds a figure lying across the bed, his back to the door in what Oliver notes as a surprising lack of tactical awareness. A deep, shaky breath leaves him before he asks quietly in something resembling a plea, "Mr. Steele?" Even though he's used to the synthesizer masking his voice on long missions, something about his tone sounds wrong to his own ears.  
  
Oliver releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding when Walter turns onto his side. He takes in the hooded figure before him, studying Oliver with the kind of appraisal that makes him nervous. "Mr. Steele?" Oliver tries again, and this time his voice is more steady. "You're going home."  
  
Despite the fact that he's most likely been wearing the same clothes for months and the curled way he was lying moments earlier, Walter still manages to rise to his feet with precise, crisp movements; it's as though he's been at a dinner party instead of being held prisoner. Finally, he shakes his head. "I must confess," he admits slowly, "I didn't quite believe Felicity when she indicated she was working with you." Then he squares his shoulders. "Nonetheless, I'm grateful you were able to find me."  
  
Oliver tries to ignore the voice in his comm that mutters, "I seem to get that a lot."  
  
He shrugs off the gratitude instead, seeing no reason to accept it for saving his stepfather. Perhaps they never really got along-maybe they didn't even get a chance to try-but no one deserves the kind of confinement they put him in, especially when Walter is yet another victim in this... whatever the hell it is that Moira is involved in.  
  
Instead, Oliver shrugs before saying truthfully, "It's Felicity you should be thanking-I never would have found you without her."


	59. Synchronization of Data Storage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is in a really good mood. Yeah, like _that_ will last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why I'm late today, I have only one explanation. *shame face* I was distracted by pretty AU ideas. Ezra slapped me in the face with an idea from "Invaluable Contribution," and I've been writing it instead of this somewhat bland chapter. Sorry.
> 
> But I'm hoping the next few will really spice up in the upcoming weeks. This is the last note of business in 1.21 The Undertaking, and 1.22 Darkness on the Edge of Town is going to start up in this universe with a bang. ;)
> 
> Comments are always appreciated, but because I'm horrible about answering right now, I'm just glad you're taking the time to read. Thank you guys so much! :)

Tommy has to admit that he's a little tired of these rushed texts about "serious business" that he keeps receiving. While he's certainly glad to be a part of Team Arrow and to be involved with whatever the hell conspiracy is going on, sometimes his life seems more fantasy than reality. Never in his life did he expect his best friend to become the Starling City Vigilante, nor did he expect all of the repercussions of that. While their friendship could have easily fallen apart because of the secrets and lies, it feels stronger now despite that fact.

Still, he knows as well as anyone that short, quick texts from Felicity are very rare, meaning that whatever conversation follows her abrupt text isn't good: _My place ASAP. Oliver needs to talk to the team._ The message alone is worrisome, but added to Felicity's grave text, he knows that this meeting isn't going to end with smiles. No doubt that the news to follow isn't going to be good at all, and Tommy already has enough trouble as it is with the club and his strained relationship with his father.

Maybe he shouldn't be so upset about being cut off, about his father trying to teach him a lesson. Reluctantly, Tommy admits that it probably wouldn't have bothered him so much if Malcolm hadn't also been trying to sell the free clinic his mother started in the Glades at the same time. In a way, the clinic is the only thing Tommy has left of his mother; some days, he can't even remember her face or her voice, and the pictures of her feel like pictures of a stranger. The idea of selling it—or worse, closing the doors on the cause his mother believed in so strongly—makes him feel like he's going to lose the last piece of her that he has.

But he forces all of those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the issue at hand. All of those thoughts can wait, but whatever Oliver has to share is clearly more important right now. To Tommy's knowledge, his best friend has _never_ called a team meeting before, which makes him think that this is going to affect all of them somehow.

Instead of worrying about it, though, Tommy simply drives down the block, parking in one of the spots reserved for her apartment. Her spot has a red Mini Cooper parked in it, with a sleek, black Ducati parked across the back of the space to save room, indicating that Oliver and Felicity are already there. After he gets out of his car and starts up the steps, he also notices Diggle's sedan parked in one of the visitor spots. Tommy hadn't realized the ex-military man had made it back from… whichever place of dubious intent he'd been for the past few days.

Pushing the thought aside, he starts up the stairs to Felicity's apartment for only the second time ever. He can't help but think again that she needs to find a better place to live—one that doesn't involve bars on some of the windows or rusted fire escapes. Not to mention some of her neighbors. Honestly, he isn't sure why Oliver hasn't carted her out (probably kicking and screaming) to somewhere nicer. Then he remembers that Felicity grew up in the Glades and Oliver spent the last five years on an island, so both of them are probably out of touch with how normal people live.

Hey, maybe Tommy is, too—he did grow up in a mansion, after all—but he's spent enough time with Laurel to know what a _normal_ apartment should feel like.

When he finally manages the flights of stairs (no way is he taking the elevator here), he knocks on the door to her apartment. Diggle is the one who answers it, motioning Tommy in. "Oliver and Felicity are in the back," the older man answers the question before it can be asked. Then a hint of amusement lights his expression. "I think he's finally fixing the lock on the fire escape."

Tommy follows him back to the living area, to where the older man sits down on the couch, nursing a bottle of beer. While he seems content to wait, the Merlyn heir is not, following the faint sound of Felicity's voie to a narrow hallway and a bedroom with an open door that he sees as an invitation to enter.

Just as Diggle said, the two are crouched by the window. Oliver's brow is furrowed with a concentration that begs for Tommy to ridicule, while Felicity gently criticizes his progress. They all know Oliver doesn't do mundane things around the house, which just shows Tommy how much he's trying. For a moment, he marvels at his best friend and himself; five years ago, they were enjoying indiscriminate sex with multiple women, and now they're both completely devoted to the women in their lives.

Felicity's voice pulls him out of his musing. "No, Oliver," it doesn't go there," she chides, holding up a set of instructions. "See? It goes _this_ "—she twists the piece around—"way."

Opportunity knocks, and Tommy is more than willing to answer. "Ollie, you should know which way it goes by now," he can't help but add in a voice suggesting that he isn't talking about locks any longer. "You've had enough experience that you should be able to do it right the first time." Oliver turns to him with a withering look, but Tommy simply raises an eyebrow in challenge. Mad kung fu skills or no, Ollie is still his best friend, and Tommy reserves the right to taunt him as he sees fit.

As expected, Felicity goes crimson on the spot, rising from her seat before speaking. "I've told you before, Merlyn," she snaps with a smile, "that _I_ make the innuendos around here." Then she walks up to him, pulling his arm to turn him in the other direction. "But let's take this conversation elsewhere—the idea of you in my bedroom kind of wigs me out." Over her shoulder, she calls, "Oliver, the lock can wait until later—let's talk Team Arrow business."

In high spirits, Tommy can't resist teasing her a little more. Over the sound of Oliver's grumbling about the use of _Team Arrow_ , he quips, "I've never met a girl who _didn't_ want me in her bedroom before. I think you've hurt my feelings, Smoaky."

As expected, Felicity is unrepentant. "You'll get over it," she assures him, looping her arm through his as she edges him back toward the living area. Glancing over his shoulder, Tommy is pleasantly surprised to see Oliver smiling for a change at their antics, more at ease than his best friend has seen him since the island. Only a few months ago, Oliver would have ground his teeth together at the sight of Tommy's platonic friendship with Felicity, but he seems to be secure in his relationship with Felicity. In a way, Tommy can't help but envy that; as long as he and Laurel have been together—on and off as partners, and now finally in a relationship—he _still_ isn't that comfortable in his place with her.

Finally, Felicity lets go of him, pointing to the couch. Tommy takes his seat as instructed, draping himself over two of the cushions. He notices at the same time that Oliver falls into one of the chairs with a weary sigh, leaning in it as though the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. That _definitely_ can't be good. "Do you want a beer or something while you wait?" Felicity asks Tommy. "We're still waiting on the last one."

As if to punctuate her thought, a synthesized yet female voice calls from the bedroom, "Sorry I'm late—a couple of men thought it would be fun to harass a young girl." As Tommy expects, the mysterious blonde Canary walks into the room, dressed in black leather from head to toe. "I corrected their mistake." The dark tone in that sentence mixes uncomfortably with the silver staff in her hands, and he reminds himself not to piss her off. "You wanted to talk about something?" She drops herself in the other far chair at the end, crossing one leg over the other casually, as though she does this all the time. Then again, for all Tommy knows, she might.

Felicity drops onto the armrest of Oliver's chair, and his hand wraps around her hip immediately. "We were investigating Harold Backman last week," she starts slowly, "but we discovered something else in the process. We found out that he laundered the money used to pay Dominic Alonzo to kidnap Walter Steele." She swallows hard, and Tommy typically finds that when _Felicity_ looks grave, things are going to be dire. A hard not lands in the pit of his stomach, and he prays that this isn't as bad as what his gut is trying to tell him it will be.

Oliver takes up the mantle from Felicity with a deep, burdened sigh. The way his eyes flick from Felicity to Tommy and back makes his best friend think that this is just as bad as he thinks it will be. "At first, we thought that Walter was dead—Alonzo thought he'd been killed after delivery." For not the first time, Tommy marvels at the way Ollie can say things so cold without any emotion whatsoever; he's just relaying facts, as though this isn't his stepfather and he has no personal interest in Walter's well-being. Oliver sighs before turning to his right-hand man. "I used your absence, Digg, to say that you had been checking on some leads with some of your old friends and contacts. I told my mother and Thea that he had been murdered." He looks up at them under his eyelashes. "Partially because I believed it, but also to see how they would react."

He takes a deep breath. "My mother's reaction was…" He hesitates over the word, and Tommy has given up on this story having a happy ending. "Complicated. She left the house immediately, and I… followed her." Now he looks only at Tommy, addressing the words to his best friend with an apology written all over his face. "She went to Merlyn Global," he admits finally, and Tommy is pretty sure that his blood freezes. "She met your dad, Tommy. I recorded the conversation, but they were both involved in it."

Really, Tommy can't bring himself to be surprised about it. "My dad used Laurel as a way to bring me the paperwork to close Mom's free clinic," he replies with a scoff, and he thinks it's interesting that the masked blonde leans forward in her seat slightly. "Kidnapping is a step up, sure, but we both know he's ruthless." He waves a hand in front of him. "It's why you're not questioning it or trying to come up with an alternative." He shakes his head. "Hell, even _I_ don't question that my father is a ruthless kidnapper."

"We wish that was where it ended," Diggle continues in that quiet yet strong voice. "Mrs. Queen and Mr. Merlyn made reference to something bigger—something they're calling the 'Undertaking,' but we don't know anything about it." He shakes his head. "What we _do_ know Is that it involves the Glades—and that it connects to the copycat archer who showed up just before Christmas."

Oliver suddenly won't meet anyone's eyes and Felicity shifts quietly in her seat at the mention, and Tommy realizes with a sharp jolt that the green archer that was nearly killed that night wasn't just a faceless hero, but his _best friend_. Ollie could have _died_ that night—and Tommy wouldn't even have known who his best friend was. The thought strikes deeper than any weapon for a moment, the thought cold and sobering.

Some of that horror must show on his face because Felicity says quietly, "Tommy, I'm so sorry. I know this must be killing you—"

He cuts her off. That's a thought for later, when he has time to really analyze that his father is about fourteen times the bastard that Tommy always thought he was. "If you think he's involved in this," he starts slowly. Oliver opens his mouth to cut him off, but Tommy holds up a hand. "No, I trust you, Ollie. I trust your instincts about this, and we both know that my father is capable of kidnapping a friend of the family without remorse. But if you're sure that he's involved in this somehow, I could… make up some story about how you and me are arguing."

The more he thinks about the idea forming in his head, the more he likes it. Yes, Tommy thinks he can do this. "The last time I talked to Dad was just after the assassination attempt—back when I just found out you were the Arrow." God, he was such an ass during that fight, and Tommy can't help but feel guilty about the way he treated his best friend. "I could say I needed a different job—Dad's said before that I'm welcome at the company whenever I want to 'take my rightful place.'" Suddenly he feels the need to ask if that involves homicide or other assorted felonies.

"Oliver hesitates. " I'm already going to talk to my mother, Tommy. You don't—"

Tommy waves a hand to silence him. "My dad may or may not be involved in some sort of diabolical plan for this city, Ollie. Don't tell me I don't have to do this." He looks at Felicity's around him, thinking of the shoddy apartments in the building and how it sits smack in the middle of the Glades. If whatever his father is planning involves this neighborhood, it will affect people just like her, just like Roy, just like half of his staff. _Good_ people, who are trying to make ends meet. "There are thousands of people that live here. That makes this personal, no matter what my dad is trying to do." He leans forward, his elbows landing on his knees. "Just tell me this, Ollie: Are you okay?"

For the first time, a bitter laugh leaves Oliver's mouth. "My _mother_ "—the word is laced with disgust that Tommy isn't sure Oliver even notices—"and my best friend's dad are involved in some sort of… conspiracy that may have dire consequences for my city." Something in Oliver's expression flickers before it goes completely dark, and Tommy is glad it isn't aimed at him. "Not to mention, it's almost certain that my mother was involved in the sabotage that brought down _The Queen's Gambit_ and killed my father…" He trails off, eyes flicking toward the window and the chair where the Canary sits. "And Sara." Then he offers part of a smile, grim though it may be. "I don't plan on using the word 'okay' any time soon."

Tommy just rises to his feet and pats his best friend's shoulder, knowing _precisely_ what he means. Oliver, at least, has had time to deal with this information, but Tommy is just discovering how vile his father is for the very first time. "I know what you mean, buddy," he answers quietly. "But if both our parents can plot together to destroy this city, I think we can plot together to stop them." When Tommy smiles, he's surprised to find that it's genuine. "I guess, in the meantime, we'll just have to watch out for each other."

One corner of Oliver's mouth lifts as he responds, "If we don't, no one else will."

 

* * *

 

Felicity has to admit that the _last_ thing she expected was to have someone give her a summons to Walter's office on the morning of his first day back at work. In a way, it feels somewhat like old times, taking her back to months ago when he would call her up to investigate the Book or hack into information about Tempest. It just reminds her how much things have changed—how blissfully unaware of her world she was back then, even _if_ she was working with the Arrow then.

She breezes past his secretary with a brief introduction, then into the CEO's office. She didn't notice before that it had that many windows—a girl could get used to a view like this. Then she thinks it's kind of extravagant—really, who needs an office _this_ big.

Fortunately, she manages not to voice any of those thoughts aloud. Walter waves to the chair in front of his desk with a controlled yet polite smile. "Please, Miss Smoak, sit down," he assures her, and Felicity wonders if he's going to fire her _this_ time. Though she doesn't think Walter is the type to play the political game, she also realizes she knows where a _lot_ of bodies in Starling City are buried.

Metaphorically, of course. She doesn't know where _real_ bodies are buried—that would be creepy.

Finally, he laces his fingers together and states, "I'd like to thank you for all you've done for me, Felicity. I didn't have the opportunity to say as much before." Thankfully, he doesn't mention that she interrupted a _totally_ family thing at the hospital because Oliver dragged her along, but everyone (except Moira, but Felicity doesn't really care what she thinks at this point) seemed to take it in stride.

She shrugs, the gratitude from stoic Walter a little overwhelming. "Once I stumbled onto the information, it wasn't that difficult," she assures him. "Tracing money back to the Caymans was the hardest part, but—" She cuts herself off abruptly, wincing. "But you probably don't need to know the details of that. The point is that it wasn't any trouble to see you returned to your family, Mr. Steele."

For some reason, his expression remains impassive; Felicity would have thought the reminder of being home would at least bring some semblance of a smile. "The Arrow," he starts casually, "seemed to think otherwise."

It's Felicity's turn to throw an impassive expression. Despite how fond she is of Walter, if he wants information on the man under the green hood, he's sorely mistaken if he thinks she'll tell him anything. "He usually does," she responds dryly, thinking about any number of things she and Oliver have disagreed about since they met. Even the lock last night was a source of argument; when Diggle arrived, he commented about hearing them argue from the hallway. But, despite their differences, both of them are able to acknowledge when the other is right.

Well, in her case. Oliver typically just stops arguing because he knows when he can't win.

To her surprise, Walter actually cracks a smile at that. "I'm sure you provide each other with a suitable challenge," he answers smoothly, and Felicity honestly isn't sure if she should be offended or not. Still, it's said with a smile so she lets it go.

Pushing a file forward on his desk in offer, he continues, "I think I can be of use to your investigation into the other archer and the situation in this city." He taps the file with his index finger. "This is a compilation of everything I learned in my captivity—and in poking around prior to that. I thought you and your hooded friend might find it useful." He flattens his hand across it. "But I give it to you only if you promise me"—the way he says _promise_ makes Felicity think it's important—"not to involve Oliver or Thea in this." Absently, Felicity notices that Moira isn't included, and the only reason why would be because Walter knows her involvement. "I know you're a close friend and that they trust you dearly, but I'd like to protect them from this, at least."

A deep sense of respect falls over her immediately. Walter may not be related to either Queen sibling by blood, but he loves them enough to keep them away from the situation with their mother. Still, it puts her in a difficult situation—she doesn't want to lie to him, but they also need that file. Finally, she decides to answer slowly, "I promise not to share it with anyone other than the Arrow or his team."

It must do the trick because Walter releases his hold on the file, allowing her to pick it up and nestle it into the crook of her arm. "Thank you, Mr. Steele," she answers quietly. "Trust me when I say this is going to help us." He only offers a nod in return and, feeling thoroughly dismissed, Felicity rises and moves to exit the office.

"Miss Smoak?" Walter stops her suddenly, and she turns back to him with a question. "Good luck."


	60. Hard Drive Cloning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver gets the crap beat out of him. Sort of. It's complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I am really, wildly unsatisfied with this chapter. The first half felt fine, but the bonus scene is eh at best. But, all things that happened needed to happen, so I guess I'm stuck with it for the time being. Reviews are always appreciated, but I love that you guys are just reading and, hopefully, enjoying. :) Thanks!

Waking with a jolt, Oliver comes to wildly, his body already trying to keep moving, to pull him into survival mode. It doesn't work, however; it takes a moment of struggling to realize that his arms and legs are bound to the chair in an abandoned warehouse. It looks like part of the Glades by the state of it, but it's hard to tell in the dim light.

Gasping calls his attention away from the structure and to the opposite dark corner, and he squints through the darkness to see who's there. Until his eyes adjust to the light, all Oliver can see is the subtle shifting of darkness as someone moves around, struggling probably as the first did. Finally squinting manages to do him some good, and Oliver can faintly make out the person across from him: his own mother. He fights harder against the restraints until a voice says in the earpiece he didn't know was there, "Relax, Oliver—this is the plan, remember?"

He stops immediately, remembering what they'd discussed earlier. He hasn't made any progress learning about his mother's plotting as Oliver Queen, and talking to her as the Arrow before hadn't served any purpose, other than to get him shot. Not one for repeating futile efforts, the team had turned to a new plan together. Oliver can't make any headway, nor can the Arrow, so they needed something else.

Diggle had suggested that the two of them combined might have a better effect.

Oliver waits for the show to begin, but Felicity says into the comm, "You're far enough away that, if you have any ideas for questions, you can say them without her hearing you." The next comment has nothing to do with him. "Digg, the stage is ready—you're on."

The words barely have time to leave her mouth before Diggle steps out of the darkness. "Moira Queen," he demands under the synthesizer, and Oliver can hear it twice—in the comm and in person. It's all he can do to keep from rolling his eyes; though he knows it's necessary, it feels a little like dinner theater to him. "You have failed this city." To his surprise, Felicity actually laughs over the comms. Apparently Oliver isn't the only one who feels like this is a farce.

The fear on his mother's face sobers him instantly. "What do you want from me this time?" she demands, and something in her tone is harder and darker than he expects. "And why is my son here? This has nothing to do with him."

Perhaps because they've worked together so long that Diggle knows what Oliver would do in the situation, he ignores her pleas. "What is the Undertaking?" he demands, but he's met with stony silence. Oliver can't say he's surprised; the last time he asked her that question, she shot him. Whatever the damn thing is, she isn't interested in sharing the details with anyone.

"Do it," Oliver suggests under his breath. They have to get this information out of her somehow, and this seems like the best scenario. He can handle a few bruises, and he's been hit a lot harder than Diggle is capable of. And Slade wasn't known for pulling his punches.

"Remember to pull your punches," Felicity adds in a frantic tone over the comm. "Did I mention that I don't like this idea? Because I don't. I understand why you're doing it, but that doesn't mean I _like_ it. I'm opposed to any and all plans that require using the people I care about as punching bags."

Diggle turns on his heel without saying anything, stomping back toward Oliver. Knowing that bracing for the hit will only make it hurt worse, Oliver keeps his posture loose, even when he sees the punch coming a mile away. That's something he'll need to mention to Digg later; he's horrible about telegraphing his punches. It hits him square in the jaw, but not nearly as hard as he's managed during practice. Oliver's groan is mostly show, though he does rotate his jaw to make sure nothing is broken. Jammed, possibly, but not broken.

When his mother cries out, Oliver almost hates himself for what he's doing to her. "Don't hurt my son!" she yells at Diggle, leaning forward in her chair as though she'd be charging him under different circumstances. "He has _nothing_ to do with this!"

"If you tell me what the Undertaking is," the man under the hood retorts, "I won't have to."

She doesn't answer, and Diggle's expression asks a silent question when he turns back to Oliver. Though he's playing a part in this situation, apparently they're still trying to follow his lead—something that Oliver never expected from this team. Both Diggle and Felicity are smarter than him—they've proved that time and time again—but yet they're both willing to make suggestions and discuss plans with him, allowing him to take point.

Oliver nods once, and this time he doesn't see the punch coming before it hits home, hitting just high enough to prevent giving him a black eye. Before he's even recovered from the second it, a third lands across his cheekbone, and this time, his mother isn't the only one crying out. "Damn it, Digg—give her a chance to respond!"

"Leave him alone," Oliver insists in a whisper. "He's doing fine." Though Felicity insisted on being a part of this, Oliver thinks that maybe she should have been left out of the loop until it was over. She's too close to the situation, and he knows better than anyone that it makes staying objective impossible. Truthfully, she's doing much better than he would be if their situations were reversed; if it was her sitting in this chair, Oliver would have already turned off the comm and started for their location.

"What is Malcolm Merlyn planning?" Digg tries again, and this time the revelation of new information _should_ inform Moira that they already know most of it. Oliver just hopes that it's enough to pull things out of her. There was a time when he thought his mother would pick his life over this… Undertaking, but he also thought she'd never have her husband kidnapped, either. It would be nice, though, if his mother would actually give him information before Digg had to bring out a blowtorch as threat.

Moira's mouth opens and closes for a second with no sound, and he thinks that she's about to break—which is nice, seeing as his jaw is starting to throb. Obvious punch or not, Diggle has an excellent ability to hit home. "I can't tell you!" she admits finally. "He's already had my husband kidnapped because he thought he knew about this. If I tell you, he'll kill me—he'll kill my family." Oliver can't help but think it's an interesting order; now her family is second to her life.

"You should be more concerned about what _I'll_ do," Diggle threatens carefully. He punctuates it with a punch to the stomach that knocks the air out of Oliver, even though it _is_ pulled, followed by one that hits at his temple. At the same time, Diggle pushes the chair over, leaving Oliver coughing and sputtering on the floor. This time, it isn't really an act.

"If you hit him one more time like that, Digg," Felicity threatens through the comms, "I'm going to remotely detonate one of those exploding arrows in his quiver." A shaky sigh echoes through the line. "I'm sorry to threaten you, but know I'm doing it from a place of love. I don't have any eyes in there and I can't tell if this is an act or not. But I'm not sure if video would make this worse or better."

Finally, Moira's voice rings out into the room. "Malcolm is planning to level the Glades," she cries out. "He said it was so he could rebuild it, but…" She trails off, shaking her head as though she doesn't believe it. Oliver doesn't, either. She bites her lip before continuing, "There's… there's a device. He says that it can cause an earthquake, so no one would even know it was an attack."

"How is this possible?" Diggle demands, and Oliver has to close his eyes to keep his head from swimming. The punch to his jaw is already starting to hurt, and he knows the rest will start throbbing soon enough.

It's a long moment before his mother answers. "I don't know," she admits quietly. "The device was invented by Unidac Industries. Malcolm used my company's Applied Sciences division to turn it into a weapon."

"Wait," Felicity cuts in, and he can hear her fingers against the keyboard as she speaks. "There was a thing at Unidac Industries earlier this week—several scientists were killed. Some top-secret group led by a Dr. Markov. The police are still investigating." A few more keyboard clicks. "Maybe it's not as innocent as we thought it was—it looks like they're keeping it hush-hush, but they think that the copycat archer is involved in this."

"Ask her why she would get involved in this," Oliver instructs, eyes still closed.

Diggle does as he asks without any sort of question, and Oliver marvels yet another time at the loyalty between them. It's almost impossible to think that he wanted to do this alone now, not when he depends on so many people to help him. "Why would you get involved with something like this?" he demands.

Moira's voice cracks when it comes out, and it startles Oliver enough to open his eyes again. His mother doesn't bow, she doesn't break, and she sure as hell doesn't cry. "My husband, he… made mistakes. He told me he pushed a man down the stairs, and when he died, they helped him cover it up." A breath leaves him in surprise. "He was lost after that—trying to do some good. When Malcolm revealed his plan, Robert tried to stop him. It left me vulnerable to Malcolm, and I had no choice." Her voice breaks again. "I thought I was protecting my children."

"Where is the device?" Oliver prompts, this time not for Diggle to repeat. "Mom, just tell him where it is so he can end this." The pleading in his

She shakes her head. "I don't know," she admits before turning to the man in the green hood. "But you can't stop him. It's too late." Her voice is grave and dark, turning with the faintest hint of regret at the end, as though finally realizing what damage this will cause.

"That's enough," he whispers to Diggle, and the older man nods. Then he pulls out the emerald-handled knife that Oliver loaned him—against Moira's protests—and cuts the zip cuffs binding him to the chair. Moira sighs in relief, struggling against her own restraints to check on Oliver.

"Police are on their way," Felicity adds helpfully as Diggle moves to Moira, cutting her restraints, too. The commotion gives him time to slip out of the room as Moira closes in on Oliver. "According to the logs, it looks like Lance is responding. That should give your double identity a little added security."

He doesn't have a chance to respond before he pockets the comm, just as his mother's hands start brushing over his face. She starts murmuring words of apology, but he doesn't respond. He can't help but find it a little hollow now that she's confessed to so many different conspiracies and crimes. Soon enough it blends into the sirens of the police cars, and then Detective Lance's scuffled footsteps break through the cacophony.

Lance huffs a sigh. "We've got to stop meeting like this, Queen."

 

* * *

 

Felicity wonders just how in the world she got roped into managing the club inventory while Tommy is gone trying to figure out his father's evil master plan. It wouldn't normally be an issue, but she also has the other, Arrow-related business to work on, too. Still it gives her something to do in between hacking Merlyn Global Group's servers on her laptop, set up on the bar next to Verdant's server.

She just hopes Oliver is back from answering police questions in time to direct the staff because they don't know her. Granted they don't know Oliver, either, but they _will_ recognize the fact that he owns the place. It kind of gives him a place of authority, even if he doesn't really know the business the way that Tommy does.

Because Felicity is so engrossed in her thoughts and her work, she doesn't hear anyone come up until they're standing right next to her. "I'm not sure you should be doing what ever that is up here, Blondie," Roy points out. "It looks kind of shady." Then he examines the screen more closely before pointing to the logo on the screen. "Are you hacking Merlyn Global Group? How does Tommy feel about this?"

Rolling her eyes, Felicity slaps her hands away from the keyboard. "Hacking is such an ugly word," she answers, feigning hurt. "I prefer to think of it as unscheduled maintenance of non-client computers. And Tommy doesn't know." _Yet_ , she adds in her head—they're going to tell him the results soon enough. "But this doesn't involve him—this is Arrow business."

Felicity struggles with indecision suddenly; she hasn't told him about their discovery of Merlyn's plan yet, and Roy lives deeper into the Glades than she does. It's likely that, should this thing blow up the way they think it will, his home will be affected. For the first time, it dawns on her that _her_ home will be affected. After all, she calls the Glades home, too.

"Blondie," Roy calls in a grave tone, "you might want to hide that laptop." She looks up at him in confusion, then follows his gaze to the door. The police car parked in front of the doors serves as a warning, and she does as Roy suggests just as Lance walks up to the door.

The gait of the man following him is all too familiar, and Felicity braces herself in her seat for whatever follows next. Even though she knows it was part of a careful plan, she has no idea how injured Oliver will be following the beating Diggle dished out. Her mind has been running wild with the ideas for the last few hours, and she's come to expect something horrible.

Of course it isn't as bad as she expects. At first, she barely thinks he's been hurt at all, but then she notices that the way he walks is a little stiff, that his jaw has already started to swell. Then there are the bruises—one at his jaw, one at his temple, and one through his eyebrow. "You look like you've been hit by a truck, Oliver," she declares as she leaves her seat, walking up to him. Out of habit, she examines the injuries, turning his head to the side so that she can get a better look. For show, she adds, "What happened to you? Another motorcycle accident? I told you that thing was a deathtrap."

Lance's eyebrows shoot up in surprise—either because of her reaction to Oliver's injuries or her feigned ignorance about the situation. "He got a visit from the Arrow earlier today," he answers, and Felicity hears Roy make a strangled sound of confusion behind her. "He and Mrs. Queen were abducted from their home, and apparently the guy used Queen here as a punching bag to get answers about something to do with Robert Queen's death. He insisted that I bring him here."

Felicity is too distracted to answer, focusing on Oliver. She motions him to the stools in front of the bar. "Sit down over here," she instructs, "and I'll get you an ice pack for…" She motions to his face. "Everything."

"I have a club to run, Detective," Oliver answers Lance's statement evenly, and he sighs as Felicity scrounges behind the bar for an ice pack. "Thank you for driving me back here." The blonde manages to hand Oliver the ice pack, and the look on Lance's face informs her that he'll be asking questions later. "Felicity," Oliver continues, "Could you drive me home after I finish up here?"

She nods once as Lance turns to leave. Almost immediately, Oliver lets the pack drop to the table. "I have to make sure today's shipments came in," he states as he rises to his feet. There's an extra weight in his tone, and, judging by the way that his eyes flick to Roy, it's an invitation to smooth the situation over with him.

Oliver is out of earshot for a few beats before Roy crosses his arms. "I thought the Queens were under the Arrow's protection," he suggests with weight. "No offense, but it doesn't make me feel very protected that he's watching my back, too."

The sigh that leaves Felicity's mouth is weary and tired. "I don't know all the details yet, but there's… _something_ happening in Starling City right now." The admission brings all of her frustration to the surface; no matter what they do, it never seems to be enough. "Moira Queen is involved in it, and the Arrow's last conversation with her didn't go too well. That's why he had to bring along some insurance." She crosses her arms. "I didn't like it, it wasn't my idea, and trust me when I say we've argued about it." She bites her lip. "But there's something going on in this city. Something bigger than me, than the Arrow, than Oliver. Lives are at stake here, and we have to make some tough choices—ones that we're probably going to hate ourselves for later."

Roy's tone and expression changes almost instantly. He shoves his hands into his pockets as he looks at her, then finds something interesting to stare at on the floor. "If you need me for anything, let me know," he offers quietly. "If something bad is happening at Merlyn Global, I want to help you."

Quietly, Felicity answers, "Believe me when I say you're the first person I'll call."


	61. Unauthorized Computer Access

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity doesn't like to call it hacking, but that's totally what she does in this chapter. And other illegal activities take place, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Logging forty hours at my "part-time" job delayed this chapter a little. I send my apologies to all, and I hope the content makes up for the delay. Comments are much appreciated, but if not, thanks for just reading along with this monster of a fic! :)

As Felicity walks from the lobby of Merlyn Global to the elevator with Oliver, she can't help but remind herself that she's solely responsible for their current predicament. If she'd only been able to hack into the server, they wouldn't have to be doing this. And really, she's kind of done with being in the field because of what happened the last time. Granted it was an underground casino and she was begging for trouble by counting cards, but it's hard to forget being held at gunpoint, too.

"Remind me why I agreed to this," Felicity demands in a fluttery voice, feeling the tell-tale shake of her hands that accompanies her nervousness. "Because I'm having a hard time remembering." It earns her a confused look from Oliver, his eyebrows knitting together. "No, I remember that I couldn't hack the Merlyn Global servers, but I don't see why I can't just give Tommy a comm and tell him to go crazy." She waves a hand. "Figuratively. Not literally."

It's enough to pull one corner of Oliver's mouth upward as he guides her forward with a hand at the small of her back. "Because we only have ten minutes before guard patrol will catch you," he answers evenly, "and Tommy doesn't know how to write code." Something about his smile changes, and Felicity is tempted to call it a smirk. "Not to mention that Tommy's typing skills are worse than my texting skills."

Felicity winces so hard that most of the muscles in her face hurt for a moment. Then she shakes her head. "How do you two _survive_ in the modern world?" she blurts. Oliver texts at the same speed that Internet Explorer loads webpages, and he even gets that deep furrow in his brow like he has to really concentrate. Even worse, sometimes she thinks that Internet Explorer is the faster of the two.

Oliver's smile is accompanied by a slight shake of his head. "I can't speak for Tommy," he answers slowly, "but my survival is mostly a combination of reflexes and five years of combat training." His voice is light despite the circumstances, and, for the first time, Felicity realizes that he's in his element: in the field and performing some sort of covert operation. This is where Oliver Queen thrives, not in the spotlight that he spends so much time in because of his birth.

For not the first time, Felicity realizes that, even if he makes it through the List, Oliver will find some way of continuing to don the hood. Though she knew from the moment she put the two together that the Arrow was an integral part of him, every once in a while it strikes her just how devoted he is to what he does. And, though the work is dangerous, she wouldn't dream of pulling him away from it. This is where he thrives, and asking him to stop would be like asking her to stop working with computers.

Finally, the elevator doors open, and Oliver ushers her in with a hand lingering at the small of her back. He must sense her concern because he reminds her quietly, "One part of the mission at a time, Felicity. Right now, we're just going to meet Tommy for lunch."

She adjusts the strap of her purse over her shoulder, fidgeting with it to prevent herself from panicking. Felicity has always been a big-picture thinker, but she's starting to think that's a curse in these kinds of situations. It's also what concerns her about Oliver's plans: he makes an outline of what she considers a plan, not bothering to coordinate every detail from start to finish the way she does. When she'd pointed this out to Diggle last night, the man had simply shrugged and offered with a cryptic smile, "No plan survives the battlefield, Felicity."

"Hold the elevator!" a man's voice calls, jolting her out of her thoughts. Felicity turns to Oliver for a moment, and they share a look before she starts frantically pressing the button marked "Doors Closed." It doesn't work, though; the man manages to reach the doors a second before they close completely.

Apparently, in addition to screwing up their plan, the man also manages to be a complete asshole. The first thing he does is turn to Felicity with an appreciative look that makes her skin crawl. "Where are you headed, sweetie?" he asks, and somehow she manages to hold back an eye-roll.

Her attention flicks to Oliver just in time to watch his jaw clench and his expression darken in a way that usually accompanies the phrase _you have failed this city_. Then she notices his knuckles on the handle of his briefcase are white. "Nineteenth floor," she blurts a lie with as much disinterest as possible, hoping that they'll be rid of the guy before then.

"Too bad," he comments. "I'm going to thirteen."

Before he can reach to press the button, the binder under his arm goes flying out into the lobby, and she's just in time to watch Oliver draw back his arm. No doubt it was his doing. Still, she seizes the opportunity, pressing the button with more force this time, before the man even realizes that the doors are closed.

It takes her all of five seconds to determine that the satisfied smirk on Oliver's face is worrying. "While I appreciate that chivalry isn't dead," she starts slowly, "I would like to point out that I fight my own battles, Oliver. The only reason I'm not yelling at you right now is because it was integral that we get rid of that particularly slimy human being." He doesn't exactly look contrite when she finishes.

"While I hate to break up your relationship counseling session," Diggle calls into the comm, causing Felicity to jump, "I think you should know that my buddy here in security is enjoying his Big Belly Buster, courtesy of Carly and my own special ingredient. Shame how some guys can't hold their benzodiazepine." Felicity had forgotten they were even wearing comms, with everything else happening. "Cams are clear—you two are officially off the grid."

A new voice jumps into the chatter. "Hey, just got back from my meeting," Tommy inserts. "What have I missed? Besides the couples' therapy and the drugging of innocent security guards, I mean." With mock seriousness, he adds, "I was the one who made sure you were hired, Diggle. When you drug the other guards, it reflects poorly on me, too."

At the same time, a new thought occurs to Felicity. "Um, boys?" she calls to catch everyone's attention. "Have you thought about what's going to happen if someone realizes I'm not at lunch with Tommy? How are we going to explain my absence?"

Surprisingly, Tommy is the one to respond. "Oh, that's an easy one, Smoaky," he answers. "My dad thinks that Oliver and I are arguing. So I've insinuated that this lunch is so we can try to mend fences. I'll just say that you left because I said something rude to you—like the complete asshat that I am—and Oliver stayed behind to yell at me."

"Tommy Merlyn, you think of everything," Felicity can't help but marvel. Oliver's plans are often missing the little details, but apparently Tommy knows how to fill those gaps with his contributions. Now she understands why the two are best friends: they're complementary to one another. "I kind of love you for that." The words surprise even her because she didn't mean to say them, but Oliver doesn't seem to be offended by her sudden, sort-of declaration of affection to his best friend.

"Not that I want to pick out curtains with you or anything," Tommy answers with a hint of that infectious humor, "but you aren't so bad yourself, Smoak." Then he sighs with dramatic flair. "But, alas, our love can never be. You insist on dating my less attractive and less charming best friend, and I'm living with a woman who could sue me for everything I'm worth." There's a thoughtful pause before he adds with mock seriousness, "I guess you could always be my mistress."

Finally Oliver deigns fit to cut in, an almost-smile spreading across his face. "Tommy, do you think you could stop flirting with my girlfriend for a few minutes?" He looks up at the indicator light over the elevator doors. "We're nearing the twenty-fourth floor, and it's going to take some concentration."

As soon as he finishes the statement, the elevator doors stop. "This is as close as I can get you to the mainframe," Diggle informs them. "The rest is up to you."

The statement causes Oliver to spring into action, pulling a pair of gloves out of the pocket of his suit coat. Belatedly, Felicity remembers that they're not supposed to have access to any of this, so they're taking precaution in case the mission is compromised. She pulls another pair of gloves out of her purse, but shaking fingers make the process of pulling them on a struggle. For not the first time, she wishes she was as calm and collected as Oliver or Digg when she goes into the field for missions.

Oliver must notice because his hands are on hers, pulling the gloves over her hands. He doesn't say anything, simply offering her a look with a clear message: _Everything is going to be fine_. The thought is punctuated with a brief kiss, and then he's climbing up to the emergency hatch of the elevator.

He scrambles through the opening as though he's been climbing elevator shafts all his life, and Felicity thinks it's a little unfair when she can barely take the stairs without tripping. Before Oliver can ask for it, she hands him up the briefcase, following it with her bag. "My tablet is in there," she warns him before passing the bag to him. "Guard it with your life."

Anyone else would roll their eyes, but Oliver only takes the bag and sets it aside—presumably somewhere safe—before crouching down over the hole and offering her a hand. She has to jump to grab it, but his grip is strong enough that she can plant her feet on the side rails for balance while suspended in the air. He pulls her up with two hands, and she stops on the top of the elevator to catch her breath.

The first thing he does is hand her the bag containing her tablet, then Oliver moves to his briefcase, opening it to reveal a small crossbow. Without any real regard for his safety, he stands on the support beam, not even bothering to brace himself. Instead, he holds out a hand as a silent invitation for her to join him.

Felicity scrambles up after him, adjusting the bag over her shoulder and making sure the little pack is properly zipped. At first she's hesitant to use his hand as leverage to pull herself up, but an experimental tug shows that he's firmly rooted in place.

Too late, he offers his next piece of advice in a warning tone: "Don't look down."

With a deathgrip on his hand and a shaky voice, she answers, "This is probably a bad time to tell you this, but I'm terrified of heights." She drops his hand to wave her own, and she can hear the crossbow clicking into place as she stares down at the abyss below her. "In my defense, though, I didn't know that until five seconds ago. Acrophobia is a perfectly common fear—"

He doesn't try to cut her off this time, but her babbling stops the moment he crouches down to slide his hand around her waist, making her own arm naturally fall across his shoulders. She wraps her other arm under his crossbow-bearing hand immediately, in some form of odd embrace. In a very serious voice that lets her know that argument is out of the question, he states, "Felicity. Hold onto me tight."

Against her will, words bubble out of her mouth: "The last time you said that, it was under _very_ different circumstances."

Oliver stops lining up his shot to look at her in a way that makes her stomach drop in something entirely not fear. The last time he gave her that look, she woke up the next morning in his arms with a mess of arrows and vigilante gear scattered across the room. Under different circumstances, she knows he'd be kissing her.

Tommy groans in the earpiece, and it causes Felicity to blurt, "Motorcycle! The last time you said that, it was when you wanted me to ride on that deathtrap motorcycle with you." Clearly too focused to think about that, Oliver only focuses on aiming the crossbow again. When he asks if she's ready, all Felicity can think of to say is, "Do it."

There's something about flying through the air that's supposed to be exhilarating, Felicity knows; in every book she's ever read, they've talked about the exciting freedom of flying through the air. At the moment, though, she's tempted to tell those authors what utter bullshit it is.

Felicity's feet are definitely meant to stay on the ground, she decides as she lands with a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach and legs that feel like they're about to collapse under her at any moment. She clings to Oliver for longer than is entirely necessary, but he lets her, waiting until she releases him to continue.

It takes a moment before Felicity feels steady enough to let him go, and the too-confident bastard actually stops to button his suit coat with one hand before switching to the other support beam in front of the elevator doors. In the process, Oliver guides her hand over to the column so that she can hold onto it. Then he holds out his own hand, and she takes it while switching beams.

Finally, he pushes open the elevator doors, motioning her through. It takes all Felicity has not to sink to the floor or throw up on everything. She tries to gather herself as Oliver scans the area while placing his gloves in his pocket again. "Security patrol just finished—they should be back in ten minutes," he tells her without paying much attention to her. He turns back to her as he continues, "I'll be back in nine after I finish making appearances with—" He cuts himself off, and Oliver's hands land on either side of Felicity's face, his eybrows coming together in concerned confusion. "Are you okay? You're green."

"I'm also about to throw up," she answers honestly. "I'm okay. I'm just not a fan of the whole elevator rope-swinging thing. Please tell me you have a different exit plan." When her answer is stony silence, she tries a little more desperately, "Please tell me you have an exit plan of any kind."

The non-answer that follows is really all the answer that she needs. "I'll see you in nine minutes," he says again before turning and walking away. He's barely out of sight when she hears him say into the comm, "Digg, you keep eyes on her the entire time." It isn't up for negotiation, judging by his tone.

"Always," is his stoic answer.

Felicity _could_ choose to dwell on the fact that Oliver has no plan, but instead, she decides to focus on the technical aspect that she knows how to handle. Because she still feels like she's going to throw up, the latter seems like the best choice, so she pulls out the card that she duplicated from Tommy and the keycode she managed to pull off of the encrypted server.

The door beeps open without any resistance, opening a world of servers and ludicrously cold air conditioning beyond. She ignores it as best she can, settling into the desk chair and hooking her tablet to the network manually. For the next few minutes, she's so wrapped up in her work that she doesn't pay any attention to her comm, but then something catches her attention.

"Oliver, we have a problem," Diggle calls into the comm. Felicity tenses on the spot, waiting to see what follows with hands perched over the keyboard. "The boys in security decided to do their walk-through early. Felicity, you need to be out of there in the next two minutes."

"What? No," she protests. "I'm nowhere _near_ finished with the server download. It's going to take at _least_ two minutes to finish it." She crosses her arms in defiance, even though no one is there to see her.

Oliver's voice finally cuts into the line, sharp and clear in its intent. "I'm headed your way, Felicity," he assures her. "I'll take care of the guards on my way up." It takes her a moment to realize that he plans on knocking some heads together, and she's tempted to ask him if that will jeopardize their plan of covert entrance and exit.

Before she can, a new voice, faded by distance, fills the line. "Hello, Oliver," the man says, and Felicity thinks it sounds vaguely familiar. Whoever it is, though, his voice sends chills down her spine.

Only when Tommy groans and Oliver greets him as _Mr. Merlyn_ does she realize that this is the same guy they broke in to stop. "I was just having lunch with Tommy and I'm on my way out," Oliver continues with the agreed upon lie.

"I'm actually on my way to a meeting," Malcolm Merlyn replies in that slimy voice of his. "I'll walk you out." Felicity winces, wondering if everyone's plans seem to backfire so beautifully, or if it's just Team Arrow that fate likes to screw with.

Moments later, Tommy cuts through the line. "Ollie, don't worry about it," he assures his best friend just as Felicity watches the download complete. "I'll take care of her." His voice is grave, even as he inserts some humor into the situation. "I may not have the martial arts skills you have, but I'm pretty sure I can come up with something."

"I'm done and I'm headed out," Felicity warns everyone as she unplugs her equipment and stuffs it all into her bag. In a panic, she turns on her heel to leave the room, only to stop cold as she practically runs into the security guard in front of her.

Her stomach fills with dread as he says to her, "I'm sorry, but this is a restricted area. I need to see your ID, please." She repeats the question blankly while searching her pockets, and Felicity just hopes she can stall long enough for Tommy to pull her out of this mess.

It feels like lifetimes, but she knows it's more like minutes when the billionaire scion turns the corner. "Oh, thank you so much, Ryan," he proclaims, surprising Felicity when he calls the guard by name. "Felicity is a friend of mine, and I was rude to her. She left before I could apologize." Before the guard can protest, Tommy turns to Felicity with an exaggerated wink. "I'm sorry for what I said to you earlier. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that."

Felicity has no idea what to say for once, her mouth opening and closing without anything coherent managing to come out. But, fortunately for her, Tommy knows exactly what to do. "Let me walk you back to your car, and we'll talk about it." He ushers her out, though she doesn't exactly need him to tell her twice, stopping to pat the guard on the shoulder. "Thanks again, Ryan. I appreciate it."

"Glad to help, Mr. Merlyn," he answers from behind them.

Unable to resist the urge, Felicity hugs him as soon as they're out of sight. "Oh, thank God," she breathes quietly. "I don't think I've ever been so glad to see anyone in my life." She frowns with distaste at her next thought. "I think that makes you my night in shining armor." Then she notes his suit and tie. "Figuratively speaking, of course."

He throws her a cheesy smile. "My armor is in the shop getting cleaned."

 

* * *

 

A sigh of relief leaves Oliver as he listens to Tommy and Felicity dodge the security guard, at the same moment the elevator opens again. Malcolm Merlyn doesn't appear to notice, continuing to talk about their families, and Oliver thinks that it's a lot more difficult to be civil when he knows that the man was partially responsible for his father's death.

It feels like lifetimes before Malcolm extends his hand with an air of finality. "Good to see you again, Oliver," he offers with a smile. "Tell your mother I said hello."

Somehow Oliver fights the urge to punch him, forcing a smile instead. "I will," he assures him, hoping his tone doesn't come off too terse.

He turns to leave when a face in the crowd surprises him. She's facing away from him, scanning the lobby for something, but there's no mistaking the teenager in front of him. "Thea?" he calls in confusion, before he can stop himself. Drawing attention to himself now only jeopardizes their team, but the brotherly instinct makes him do it.

Before she can answer, he scans the lobby further, only for his eyes to lock onto another teenager—one in a denim jacket with a red hood underneath. He may not know Roy Harper as well, but Oliver still recognizes him with ease. Before Thea can answer the first question, he asks a second: "Is that Roy?"

She glances at Roy, and Oliver can already tell she's going to lie before it happens. "Uh…" she starts slowly, but then Oliver lifts an eyebrow at her. Thea sighs once before admitting, "Yeah, it is." She's quiet for a long moment afterward, clearly saying all she wants on the subject.

Oliver isn't going to let it go so easily, however. "And why are you and Roy here?" he uses as a follow-up. She gets that look again, so he adds, "The truth, please. And don't stonewall me."

This time, Thea's sigh is tired and weary. "Roy has it in his head that he's going to help the Vigilante," she blurts. "He's kind of been obsessed since the Vigilante saved his life. He didn't tell me how he found out about it, but he says that the case at Unidac connects to Merlyn Global—" She cuts off, and her eyes flick over his shoulder. "Hey, Felicity," she says abruptly, clinging to the blonde's appearance like a lifeline. "How are you doing?"

"I was having a pretty awesome day," Felicity answers, "until came down from lunch to find your brother looking like _this_." She points to him, motioning to whatever expression must be on his face. "Why don't you just leave for now? I think it would be better to talk about this later."

He knows what she's doing: Felicity is trying to get everyone out of the building before their covert op is discovered. They've already had one close call, and it's more than enough for one mission. Oliver, however, has other priorities. Instead of trying to continue talking to his sister, he bypasses her for the other teenager standing there.

Roy seems completely unperturbed by the situation. "Nice to see you again, Oliver," he offers, extending his hand. He can hear Felicity groan behind him, and then she mutters something to Thea.

Oliver grips the other man's hand perhaps a little too tightly, and something resembling fear passes through Roy's eyes. "Roy," he starts firmly, hoping to put the fear of God into the kid, "don't mess around with the Hood." Maybe using the name the police use will put some sense into him. "The man is a psychopath. He's dangerous, and anyone who gets near him ends up dead. That will _not_ be my sister."

Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in a little harder than necessary. "Oliver," Felicity says, her voice a warning. He turns to face her, waiting to hear whatever she has to say. "Let me handle this," she insists quietly. It takes him a moment to agree, but he realizes that he's probably too emotionally compromised on the subject—and the adrenaline rush from breaking in doesn't help, either.

Reluctantly, he nods once before turning away.

After taking a few steps, he hears Felicity say to Roy in a stern voice, "Remember that protection agreement? You do _not_ involve the Queens in this." He starts to protest, but she silences him. "I know you didn't mean anything by it, but there could have been consequences. We'll talk about this later. For now, take Thea home."

There's a long pause before she adds, "And maybe try not to piss Oliver off anymore than you already have."


	62. Replacement of Corrupt Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's forecast: Cloudy with a 100% chance of monkey wrenches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute blast to write. I stuttered through a few paragraphs here and there, but for the most part, it went well. (That could have even been exhaustion from work.) Easiest chapter I've written in a very long time. :) I'm hoping you guys will like it, too.
> 
> I think I'm probably going to be online most of the day, so I'm eagerly awaiting your responses, should you have the time. :) If not, thanks for supporting this story by continuing to read the writings of this insane writer!

Felicity props her feet up on the metal gurney in the lair, grateful that they all made it back to base without being discovered. Now there's nothing to do except wait for the information to download and go through her decryption software. Because she doesn't have to do it by hand anymore, it leaves her with nothing to do except drown in her own fatigue. At least, until Roy makes it back in.

Maybe the teenager is a little too eager—which she plans to remedy soon—but his heart is in the right place. She knows what it's like to live in the Glades, knows what it's like. No doubt that he's been told his entire life that he's useless and disposable, like all of the Glades residents have been. But while Felicity escaped it by proving otherwise and making something of her life, Roy finds his purpose in helping the Arrow.

The metal door slams shut, and she knows by the footsteps that it's the man in question coming down the stairs. (Felicity never hears Oliver coming, and she can only hear Diggle's when the lair is deathly quiet.) "Before you start yelling," Roy starts, and Felicity doesn't even bother to open her eyes, "I just want to say that—"

The blonde cuts him off without a second thought. "First of all, this isn't an attack, so you don't have to defend yourself," she starts. "If this was an attack, the Arrow would have been waiting for you instead of me. I like you, so I wouldn't do that to you." She lets that sink in for a moment before continuing, "Secondly, any yelling in this lair typically happens between the aforementioned vigilante and myself. Even if the Arrow _had_ been waiting for you, he wouldn't have yelled at you."

Felicity takes a moment to think about that. "He probably would have passed you a wooden staff and invited you onto the mats. Which would result in him kicking your ass before telling you that the Queens are under our protection, which means you do _not_ involve them in this." She crosses her arms. "Because I have zero combat training, I'm just going to tell you that bringing Thea with you was a mistake."

She opens her eyes long enough to point a finger at him. "I'm telling you this time because I know you were just trying to help us, which I greatly appreciate. Now you know, and, if you do it again, I won't be able to save you from getting your ass kicked by a very angry, very green vigilante."

Roy snorts, and, even with her head resting against the chair and her eyes closed, Felicity knows his arms are crossed. "What makes you think I'd get my ass kicked, Blondie?" he retorts. "I may not be a trained soldier, but I can hold my own against the criminals in the Glades."

The change in topic is only allowed because she knows him, knows Roy Harper doesn't make the same mistakes twice. "I know you can," she assures him, and she's not trying to humor him. Felicity knows he's managed to fight guys twice his size before. "But the Arrow typically takes down a small army of trained soldiers every night. I'm not saying he would wipe the floor with you in two seconds, but you definitely wouldn't win."

Roy's voice changes abruptly. "The reason he knows how to fight is because he's an ex-spook, right?" he asks suddenly. "He was a special ops guy for ARGUS, wasn't he? I remember what he said about knowing someone in ARGUS who owes him a favor." He sighs when she doesn't answer straight away. "I won't say anything about it, but it's been bugging me."

Felicity lifts her head, opening her eyes to look at him. "Honestly?" she answers. "I have no idea. He doesn't really talk about his life before he wore the hood. The bits and pieces I _do_ know are personal and I wouldn't repeat them to anyone."

A hand drops on her shoulder, and Felicity doesn't have to turn to know it's a green glove. "There's a cot in the back if you need to rest, Felicity," he reminds her gently. As if she's likely to forget; the first time they slept together—not sex, but sharing sleeping quarters—was on that cot.

Felicity shrugs, feeling the weight of Oliver's hand shift as she does. "I didn't want to just take over your stuff without permission," she explains, turning to look up at him. The mask and the hood shadow his eyes, but Felicity likes to think she's an expert on reading his face. There's a slight lift at the corner of his mouth, which she takes as a sign that he isn't going to kill Roy for dragging his baby sister into this.

Not tonight, at least.

His response to her statement takes her breath away. "What's mine is yours," Oliver responds simply, punctuating the thought with a kiss. For a moment, she can hardly believe this is the same man who admitted he was afraid of moving too fast a few months ago. Now, it seems, he's going all in.

Before she can respond, Oliver turns to Roy. Felicity means to stop him from addressing what happened earlier in the day, but her fears are unwarranted. "I worked for ARGUS about three years ago," he states abruptly. It's new information, even to Felicity. "They didn't teach me how to fight, but they taught me skills that I use here." Then Felicity realizes that this is Oliver showing that he isn't mad about what happened today. With more reluctance, he adds, "And they turned me into the person I was when I started this."

Roy probably doesn't understand the significance of that, but Felicity does. The first time she met Oliver Queen, he was a far different man than he is today, guarded and dark with contained anger eating away at him. Not to mention his propensity for dropping bodies instead of leaving unconscious guards behind him. It's easy enough to tell it bothers him.

After a long moment, Oliver grips her shoulder, nodding with a pointed look. "You need to get to work, Roy, and we need to get home," Felicity says, just before a long yawn splits her jaw open. "It's been kind of a long day, even though the nights just started."

Roy nods once, taking the hint as he starts toward the stairs. "Well, I hope you enjoy your night off," he answers. "I think you two deserve it—the Arrow has been pretty active in the past few weeks." He takes a few steps before turning. "Let me know if I can help," he adds before pulling the door shut behind him.

Felicity watches him leave—both through the doorway and on the security feed on her computer. "I think we're clear to leave—" she starts as she turns in her chair, but her voice abruptly cuts off as she takes in Oliver. Instead of changing clothes in the bathroom, she's pleasantly surprised to find him pulling off his jacket and mask in front of her.

Felicity _definitely_ isn't going to close her eyes for this one. "This basement has the best view in Starling City," she can't resist teasing him, "and it doesn't even have any windows."

It brings a smile to his face as he changes back into his jeans. "I think I liked it better when you ogled me quietly," he retorts. Felicity doesn't remember the last time his tone was so playful, but his smile fades slightly. She wonders why that is, but now isn't the time to ask.

"Now I don't have to," she answers his statement. "I'm invoking my privileges as your girlfriend—I get to stare as long and as loudly as I want to, just as long as I'm staring at you."

The look he throws her from across the room is heated. "I'll remember that the next time you're changing clothes," he promises as he pulls the black sweater over his head. Then he switches topics. "Do you want to take the bike, or are you driving?"

She motions to her attire. "No motorcycles in this skirt," she answers as she gathers her purse and keys. "I'll meet you in the garage." He nods once as he pulls on the brown leather jacket, and Felicity turns on her heel toward the stairs.

The drive home is filled with silence, a boring, uneventful trip that she desperately needs after today's excursion. Oliver leaves her to her thoughts when he meets her in the parking garage, not bothering to speak until her purse is on the table in the entranceway and the door is locked.

Finally, he says what he must have been thinking about over the entire drive. "I thought when my father told me to right his wrongs, he meant the List." He chuckles lightly to himself. "I think he meant the Undertaking we're trying to stop. It's almost over, Felicity." The last words are sad, as though he's realizing that the one thing he understands—in his mind, probably the one thing he's good at—is almost over.

"Maybe you'll be done with the List," she agrees, "but that doesn't mean you have to stop wearing the hood, Oliver. This city needs someone to stand up for it, even without a list." She pats his arm. "It doesn't have to be over because the mission is complete." She winces at the robotic way she says the military jargon. "You can find a new purpose, a new reason to wear the hood."

His eyebrows knit together after a moment and his head tilts to the side. "You're not going to ask me to stop," he says after a moment, and his voice is heavy with the weight of the realization.

It takes her a moment to realize he expected it, for her to force him to give up something he loves so dearly. "Oliver, asking you to stop being the Arrow would be like asking me to stop working with computers," she answers with vehemence. "I may not like that it's dangerous, that there have been a few close calls, but…"

Felicity sighs, taking a moment to figure out what she intends to say. "I joined this crusade because I fell in love." She waves her hands quickly. "Not with you—that came much later. I fell in love with your passion, your ideals, your purpose. I knew when I started playing tech support for the Vigilante that it was going to be dangerous, but I didn't care. I wanted to help you save this city, and I still do."

The last word is barely out of her mouth before he covers it with his. From experience, she knows he's too self-contained to express what that means to him in words, so he uses actions, something he's far more comfortable with. The kiss is soft and sweet, slow and methodical.

Finally, he breaks away from her, but the look he throws her says that they're done talking—about this or anything. Really, Felicity is only expediting the normal stares and flirting by saying, "Let's go to bed."

His head tilts to the side ever so slightly. "It's been a long day," he says after a moment, already turning toward the bedroom. "You should get some rest—you've earned it."

Oliver's reaction is so opposite of her expectations that it throws her for a minute, and she decides she wasn't clear enough. "Oliver?" Felicity calls, and he stops so that he can turn to face her. The expression on his face is open, clearly seeking the response to follow her question.

Her next sentence serves as a call to action: "I'm not tired."

Before she's aware that Oliver has even taken a step forward, his mouth is on hers again. This time it isn't sweet with gratitude, but rough with intent. Her hands fly to his hair as his move to her hips, but hers don't linger in place long before sliding down to the hem of his shirt and pulling it upward. He takes the hint, breaking the kiss to pull it off before pulling her back into her arms.

While Oliver seems to be content with the way things are progressing, Felicity is not. After sliding off her shoes, she wraps her legs around him in a fluid movement, and Oliver easily holds her up with a hand under her thighs. She has to wonder how he can do it, though, while his other hand is very much preoccupied with unbuttoning her shirt.

In between kisses, she says breathlessly, "I think we need to take this somewhere more private." Then she trails a line across his jaw with her mouth. "Or maybe somewhere more intimate, since we're already alone. It was just a line to use." He chuckles against her bare shoulder because he's somehow managed to pull the collar away from her neck while she was preoccupied with his chest. To make her point, she repeats, "Let's go to bed." Oliver's only answer is to kiss the junction of her shoulder and neck while carrying her toward the bedroom.

They're so preoccupied that neither one of them notices the police car parked down below.

 

* * *

 

Lance pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his cheekbones as he walks toward his desk in Homicide, wondering how the hell things started getting so twisted. The answer is simple, of course—it was when that damn vigilante showed up and the case file landed across _his_ desk—but it's the only thing simple at the moment. The deeper he dives into this Arrow business, the murkier it gets. Usually digging leads to answers, but not with this case.

Things were simpler, Lance thinks, when Oliver Queen was the Hood piling up a body count and Felicity Smoak was a damn good cyber-criminal. Somewhere along the way, though, the lines have blurred, and nothing makes sense anymore. The Arrow stopped killing and started working with the police, and, unless he's somehow developed the ability to be two places at once, it isn't Queen under that hood. Now Felicity Smoak is the person who passes information between Lance and the Arrow, some sort of unofficial liaison.

Not to mention Lance is the head of the Hood investigation. If anyone knew he met the hooded vigilante behind the police station and stood within spitting distance of him, Lance would be lucky if he just lost his badge over it. With every case the Arrow works, the detective sees less and less reason why they should arrest him.

But, because it's his duty, he also has to keep working the case. That's why he had Smoak's phone tapped, why there's still a patrol car outside her apartment building. Fortunately, she's smart enough to keep her conversations elsewhere; outside of a few vague texts to an encrypted burner phone, her phone records are spotless. Other than that, there are only a few innocuous calls and texts to Barry Allen, the Merlyn kid (Laurel says they spend most of their time arguing), Roy Harper, a Donna Smoak that he assumes is her mother, and the Queen siblings.

The surveillance, however, is the current cause of complication. He'd thought nothing of the Ducati when it darted into the parking structure because Oliver Queen spends a _lot_ of time with Felicity, but that doesn't mean he expected the display through her living room window, either. Usually her curtains are closed, but she opened them to read last Saturday and she never pulled them back into place, which gave him a nice view of… Well, all Lance knows is that Queen and Smoak are closer than he originally thought—maybe than _they_ originally thought.

While he didn't particularly want to see that, he's just grateful it was him instead of some of the other officers on the detail; at least Lance will make sure it doesn't end up the latest gossip rag. He remembers what it was like for Laurel, how the reporters rarely had any information right and phrased it _just_ loosely enough to avoid libel charges. If the two decide to go public with whatever the hell they have, their choice, but Lance doesn't think it would be fair to have the whole thing foisted upon them. The Queen kid doesn't seem to be half as horrible as he used to be, and, against his better judgment, Lance has a soft spot for the blonde computer technician who doubles as the Arrow's tech support.

His thoughts are interrupted when Kelton walks toward him with hurried steps. The man is one of the best at computer forensics he's ever seen, and a few days ago, Lance managed to call in the right favor to the right judge for access to Merlyn Global's mainframe. While working the Unidac Industries case, Hilton and Lance had stumbled across a few calls from Markov, the head scientist, to a line at Merlyn Global. Much like the Vigilante case, this one is starting to have a few twists and turns to it.

Before Kelton can spout any techno-babble, Lance greets him with a firm, "What did you find, Kelton?" He's hoping his face portrays another thought: don't start rattling on about hard drives and gigabytes and Ethernet cables.

Apparently it's lost in translation, but the man seems excited, so Lance takes that for a win. "Merlyn Global's cybersecurity is through the roof," he states, and Lance doesn't think he should seem so damn happy about it. "They have firewalls that _I've_ never seen before, not to mention the NSA-level I.P security protocols and the—"

Lance cuts him off. "You lost me at 'through the roof,'" he admits. Then he frowns. "So basically what you're saying is tech speak for, 'I struck out, boss'?" Then he sighs. "I'm going to need another cup of coffee for this one—follow me to my desk." He starts toward the corner desk without waiting.

Kelton stays on his heels the entire time. "Yes, but I wasn't the only one," he answers, and Lance stops in his tracks to face the technician. If someone else is looking into this, it probably isn't going to end well; the archer is dangerous and he's already proven he doesn't share the Arrow's hesitance to kill. "Someone else tried hacking Merlyn Global's systems," Kelton continues. "For the most part, they used the same pathways I did, wrote some truly impressive code, and got the same result."

Lance's first thought is that the Arrow and the other archer are somehow tied, and he'd bet the vigilante would want to keep up on the guy who kicked his ass the last time. And that kind of computer know-how speaks of someone with training; after all, Kelton is one of the best experts not just in the city, but the entire state. Without voicing that thought, he tries something else. Slowly, Lance starts, "Wait a minute. Someone else found the link between Merlyn and Unidac, and was trying to research it further, same as us?"

The technician nods. "Not just anyone," he disagrees. "Someone _good_. We're talking degrees in computer science. Her coding was beautiful, and she knew how to reverse-engineer her footprints. If I hadn't compared some of the coding she left behind to the lousy crap Merlyn's techs used, I never would have caught her."

The feminine pronoun makes Lance wince internally before Kelton is even through. There may be more than one female computer tech in the city, but there's only one he knows this good who has any connection to the situation that makes any sense. Hoping he's wrong, he repeats, " _Her?_ "

Kelton nods with pride that further sours Lance's mood. "Yeah," he agrees. "Remember that cyber-hacker who nearly got through Queen Consolidated's servers a few years back? They filed a police report, and I matched up some of the coding in both samples." He shrugs when Lance doesn't follow. "Coding is kind of like speech or writing patterns—no two people use exactly the same language. I thought it looked familiar—and I'd remember something like this—so I went through some of the Cybercrimes cases I worked." He holds out the file in his hands. "Looks like the hacker is a Queen Consolidated employee. Her name is—"

Lance says it so he won't have to. "Felicity Smoak."


	63. System Restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two words: Donna Smoak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, my brain is fried from so much writing today. I'll just say this chapter was difficult.
> 
> Just to give you a time table, we're possibly three or four chapters out of the end.

Working in the server room at Queen Consolidated, all Felicity can manage to do is tap a pen against the desk. There are a million things she could be doing, of course, but all of them are beyond her for one reason or another today. Coding is more complex than she can manage, filing reports too tedious, diagnosis too complex. She can't concentrate because her stomach is doing flips, the concern making her nauseous.

Last night, Oliver insisted upon confronting Malcolm Merlyn as the Arrow. Because he thought it would be simple and straightforward, he insisted she go home. With a smile, he had told her to go to bed and that he'd join her, and she'd thought nothing of it. Digg had even gone home, as all of them had thought it would be an uncomplicated mission.

Now that it's been twelve hours since they've heard from him, Felicity is starting to think they made a horrible mistake.

After several panicked calls to Digg and Sara, Felicity finally remembered the GPS tracker she gave him. Because she was already at work, she couldn't access the system herself, but fortunately, she taught Roy how to run the trackers. He was able to give them a location without any trouble whatsoever. Unfortunately, though, that was two hours ago, and she hasn't heard from any of them since.

When her cell phone rings abruptly, Felicity jumps before recognizing the sound. Then she answers it immediately, and only after she presses the green button does she realize that it isn't any of the people she wants to hear from. In fact, it's probably one of the _last_ people she wants to talk to right now. Still, she presses the phone to her ear. "Hey, Mom," she answers with as much cheer as she can muster.

Apparently it isn't enough cheer to hide all the things underneath. "What's wrong?" is the immediate question that follows. "You sound funny. Are you having a bad day?" Felicity fights back a groan; when her mother gets hold of something, she doesn't let it go until she's satisfied. "You sounded so happy the last time we talked."

The last time she spoke to her mother, Oliver was sleeping peacefully next to Felicity with his arm around her waist. Now, she's not even sure if he's _alive_. That's a thought she can't handle, so she focuses on the conversation at hand. "I'm just tired today," Felicity assures her, and it's not really even a lie. When she woke up at three and he wasn't there, she hadn't slept a wink after that. "There's a lot to do here, and I can't seem to concentrate. I'll go home tonight and take a nap—I'm sure I'll feel better after that."

A sigh crackles through the connection, and Felicity feels worse now than she did before. Lying to her mother makes her feel like a horrible human being; she doesn't know how Oliver does it all the time. But, then again, Moira Queen is practically the Wicked Witch of the West. "Honey, I know I haven't been around as much as I would have liked—" Donna Smoak starts in a softer tone.

"That wasn't your fault," Felicity insists, the same way she always does.

Again her words fall on deaf ears; her mother continues as though she hasn't spoken. "—but I can tell that you're not just tired. Tell me what's wrong. We can fix it together." Without meaning to, she practically drenches her daughter in guilt.

It's enough to break Felicity's resolve. Obviously _my boyfriend is the Vigilante and he's missing_ isn't a good sentence, but maybe she can play with the truth. After a long sigh, she finally manages her honest-but-not reply. "My boyfriend and I are going through a rough patch," she admits finally. Though it's a little misleading, she thinks it's one of the more honest things she's ever said. She can't think of anything rough-patchier than a billionaire vigilante boyfriend whose mother is trying to destroy the city.

Not only is the squeal that follows completely unexpected, Felicity is fairly certain that it reaches levels only dogs can hear. "Oh, you have a _boyfriend!_ " Donna exclaims. "What's his name? Where does he work?" In a more salacious tone, she asks, "Is he handsome? Have you two had sex?" Then, angrily: "Why didn't you tell me you were dating when I asked you?"

Wincing, Felicity wishes she'd never brought up the subject. To be fair, the last time her mother had asked, she wasn't lying; it was just before Oliver had tried to bleed out in her car, when they were still in that awkward, almost-but-not-really phase. "It's kind of a new development," she admits after a moment, even though it's been several months. "And, ew, stay out of my sex life, Mom." She hesitates before answering her first questions; she has no idea how much Oliver wants to involve himself in this, and there is the matter that he's kind of missing. "I'm not sure if his name is worth mentioning at this point because we're on the outs, but he works at Queen Consolidated." Again, it's not really a lie; his name _is_ on the side of the building, after all. "And yes, he is absolutely gorgeous."

Donna squeals again, but this time it stays more within human hearing ranges. "I'm so glad for you, honey!" Then her voice turns somber. "What seems to be the problem between the two of you?"

There are a lot more problems when faced with the question than she thought before, Felicity can't help but admit. They can't really tell anyone about their relationship—especially not Roy, who thinks she's dating the Arrow—which means they're not really going anywhere for the time being. And then Oliver has a tendency to break out sections of her wall to create hidey-holes. (Maybe the last one is a little silly, but the first stands.)

Sighing, Felicity answers, "We've just had a lot of stress over the last few months. The new Applied Sciences division has made a lot of work for us, so we've been stretched in opposite directions for a while." Applied Sciences has been the cause of their troubles for quite sometime, since the Unidac Industries merger meant an earthquake machine and the destruction of the city Oliver has spent so much time trying to save.

"I'm sure you two will get through it," her mother assures her. "But I want to meet him at some point," she insists. "I'm saving up for a plane ticket, but it will be a while." Felicity sighs because it's the best news she's had all day; with everything going on in the city right now, the last thing she needs his her mother in the middle of it. "Maybe we can do that video chat thing you showed me the last time you were in Vegas."

She sighs. "Skype, Mom. It's called Skype," Felicity answers in a weary tone. The clock on her computer shows it's time for her lunch break, but more importantly, it marks the end of the deadline. She swore to herself that if she hadn't heard from Diggle and Sara by noon, she'd call them to demand a progress report. "I'm sorry, but I have to go get lunch, Mom. Call me before you come to town, okay? I'll make sure my second bedroom is set up for you—I'll even make sure all the dog hair is gone."

They exchange goodbyes then, and Felicity takes a moment to steel herself. There's no way she can mentally prepare herself for whatever will come next, but she's going to try to hold it together long enough to make sure the Glades stay in one piece. Oliver may have started this on his own, but, no matter what, she's going to help him finish it. After getting up to pull the door to the server closet shut, she speed-dials Diggle.

It rings for what feels like an eternity, and each ring feels like a nail going into a coffin. There are only two logical reasons why John Diggle wouldn't answer her call. The first is because his phone is broken, but she knows he has a backup and he'd send her the new number.

The second is because he has bad news that he wants to tell her in person.

She's so distracted that she doesn't even hear the door open or close, but the voice makes her immediately terminate the call. "Felicity?" he calls quietly, and she has to turn in her seat to be sure. While he's bruised, battered, and limping toward her, he's definitely Oliver Queen.

In a rare moment for her, Felicity can't find the words to speak. Because action seems to be Oliver's thing, she gives it a shot; the blonde wraps her arms around him so tightly that he stiffens for a moment, probably in pain. When she finally pulls her head away from his shoulder, it's to claim his lips with her own.

Though it certainly isn't their first kiss by any means, the passion behind it is new and different. It isn't a declaration of love or a statement of intent. Instead, it's wild and desperate, with flurries of movement caused by wandering, nervous hands. Really, Felicity thinks, what they're doing with their mouths and hands is the apocalypse in kiss form—the kind of intensity between them can only come from the thought that they'd never be able to do this again.

And, judging by the way he's responding to her, she wasn't the only one thinking it.

If they were at home, she'd have no problem pulling him into her bedroom—she's never experienced I-thought-you-were-dead sex, and she has no doubt he'd be _fantastic_ at it—but then Felicity becomes acutely aware that she's pressed against a very hot server. That, and it's absolutely _freezing_ in the room to keep them from overheating. And she is _so_ not interested in semi-public sex—even with Oliver.

She pats his shoulder several times, unable to speak because she's trying to catch her breath. "If… we break… this server…" she informs him haltingly, "I'll have… to fix it." She takes a few deep breaths so that she can speak in a normal manner again. "I'm not sure I'll be able to speak again," she tries, and her words are slower and breathier, but at least she isn't panting. "I might have to text you the rest of my thoughts because _wow_." She sighs, partially from the breathlessness and partially in sadness. "But you'd have to learn how to text a little faster. It's kind of pathetic that my boyfriend knows next to nothing about technology. I should have rubbed off on you by now."

He offers a breathy chuckle, and it brings her attention to that glorious face, split into a blinding smile that makes her a little lightheaded. (That could just be the kiss, though.) It makes her notice the wild array of color on his face that isn't an excited flush. "Like my lipstick has," she adds, rubbing the corner of his mouth to wipe the spot. Then she notices the trail of fuchsia down his jaw. (She doesn't even _remember_ doing that, but she's been fantasizing about kissing the line that jaw since the first time she saw it. And, yeah, she totally loves being able to do it.)

Then she licks her lip before asking the million-dollar question: "So, what happened to _you?_ "

"Malcolm Merlyn is the other archer," he answers, his expression suddenly turning grim. "He…" Oliver trails off, and Felicity knows the Dark Archer won yet another fight. "He was able to capture me," he admits, which is probably hard on his ego, but not as hard as admitting he got his ass kicked. "He knows my identity, and he was going to kill me. I managed to break away and take down two of the guards before Diggle and Sara came in." He looks away as he says Sara's name, and Felicity knows why.

"She killed them, didn't she?" Felicity asks quietly. She _knows_ it bothers Oliver, but she also knows that Sara is in the same place he was when he returned to Starling City. The Canary knows the importance of protecting an identity, and she's loyal enough to Oliver to protect his at all costs.

He doesn't answer that, which is more than answer enough. "Merlyn's earthquake device has to be somewhere that impacts the Glades. Maybe a fault line—that would increase the effect of his machine. If we can find that, we can stop it with the specifications you downloaded from his server." Then he hesitates. "I don't know how to stop him, Felicity."

Her insistence comes from the one thing she _does_ know in all of this. "We'll figure it out, Oliver. Together." Then she qualifies it. "But over lunch—I'm starving."

 

* * *

 

As he pulls the unmarked car into one of the parallel parking spaces in front of Queen Consolidated, Quentin Lance has to admit he almost feels a little guilty about what is to follow. The scene in front of him only makes it that much worse; Felicity Smoak looks brilliantly happy, babbling to an indulgent Oliver Queen who simply smiles and nods along to whatever she's saying.

Lance kind of feels like an idiot because he completely _missed_ this. But now that he knows their companionship has _nothing_ to do with friendship, he wonders how the hell he didn't see it earlier. There might be an element of subtlety to it, but Lance is a trained investigator, damn it. Now that he does know, it might as well be broadcast on the national news for the blatant obviousness of the situation.

They aren't touching. They aren't standing any closer to one another than they should. They aren't even _flirting_ with one another, and the only reason anyone seems to be glancing their way is because he's Oliver Queen. No one else would probably even think that, two nights ago, they were wrapped around each other in her living room, in a way that screamed it wasn't their first rodeo.

It takes Lance a moment to place a finger on it, but finally he decides that it's the way they interact with one another. When Felicity speaks to the Queen kid, it's like she forgets everyone else standing around her because he's there. She practically bumps into someone else in effort to keep stride with Queen, and Lance thinks she looks a little startled, as if she's surprised that anyone else exists in this moment.

And, the fact that will always surprise Lance, Queen looks at the blonde like she's the center of his universe, or something equally as sappy out of one of those cheesy romance novels Laurel practically devours. By the way his eyes flit to passersby, Lance thinks the kid definitely acknowledges the presence of other people, but he doesn't care because the only person who matters is right next to him. The detective has had the misfortune of knowing the kid since he was sixteen years old, and he has _never_ seen that look on Queen's face in his life.

On any other day, it might bring a grudging smile to his face.

But it isn't any other day, and he has a duty to perform. They're already walking in his direction, so all he does is lean against the car and wait for them to pass. Maybe he has to do this to keep his job, but he'd like to prevent ruining the poor girl's life over this. Despite his better judgment, he finds himself wanting to protect Felicity from the fallout of this, even though she's beyond his saving now.

Oliver is the first to notice the detective standing on the sidewalk, and he stops with a sudden change in expression. While he was open before, all emotion on his face slips behind some sort of mask, except for a touch of wariness peeking through. Lance has never noticed this before, but maybe that's because his eyes have recently been opened.

It takes Felicity a moment longer, as she takes a moment to look at Queen in confusion as to why he's stopped. Then she follows his gaze and offers Lance a less enthusiastic smile than was just on her face. "Good afternoon, Detective," she greets him. "What brings you to QC today?"

"This is an official visit, I'm afraid," he answers, surprised that he sounds just as unwilling as he feels. Queen twitches at that, and Lance wonders if the kid has a sixth sense for bad news or something. "I'm waiting for you, Miss Smoak." Her eyebrows knit together, and he clarifies reluctantly, "I have some questions for you." He studies Queen for a moment before turning back to Felicity. "I think it would probably be a good idea for you to reschedule lunch with your boyfriend—it's going to take a while."

The girl's mouth opens, but, for once, no sound comes out. Queen looks absolutely beside himself, and for once, Lance kind of feels sorry for the kid. Yes, he was a prize ass back in the day, but the detective thinks he might have done some much-needed growing up on that island—maybe even a little more than strictly necessary. "It's not like she's under arrest, Queen," he assures the kid, thinking it would probably be best if he took a hike before this _really_ begins. Felicity releases a breath at that. "I just have a few questions. I'll have her back to you before the lunch hour is over."

The two exchange glances in an eerie way Lance doesn't like; they're basically having a whole conversation on their faces, and he _definitely_ isn't invited to this conversation, even if he did know the language. "There's a little sandwich shop a few blocks down," she points out casually, as though police officers pick her up every day and this is nothing. "If you'll pick us up something, I'll just take a long lunch. I'm sure my boss won't mind." It brings a glimmer of a smile back to the kid's face, and Felicity waits until he's out of earshot to ask, "Is this about the Arrow, Detective?"

"Yeah," he answers, all the while wishing it wasn't. "One of our computer techs found your code on a server at Merlyn Global." He frowns with distaste. "I have a few questions, but this time it's a little more formal. I'm gonna need you to come back to the station with me." He motions toward the car. "You can even sit up front, if you promise not to make a break for it."

She swallows and her hands shake for the brief moment before she locks them together. "I can't run in these heels, anyway," she assures him. Lance opens the door for her, and she slides in. After he climbs in the car himself, she asks, "I respect the fact that you're probably not able to tell me, but what's going to happen?"

He sighs as he starts the car, running a hand over his face. He shouldn't be talking to her at _all_ until they make it back to the SCPD, but, damn it, he wants to help her. So he finds himself doing something he's never done before: giving advice to a suspect. "You're not under arrest," he assures her. "No matter what, remember that. You can walk out whenever you want to, despite what anyone tells you otherwise. If you throw around the word 'lawyer,' it's going to make us circle you like vultures. Don't do that. If you're not sure if you should answer, don't. Think before you speak, and, for God's sake, don't incriminate yourself."

The blonde continues to stare out the window, and Lance needs to make sure she understands this. If nothing else, she needs to understand these next words. "Felicity," he starts slowly as he pulls into traffic, and _that_ catches her attention. It's a moment before Lance realizes he's never called her by her first name before. "When we go into that interview room, things are going to be different between us. This case is _my_ case, and they're going to expect me to give it everything I've got to break you. Full-court press, no holds barred."

He slams his palm against the steering wheel. "As an officer of the law, it's my duty to interrogate you to the best of my ability. I'm going to treat you like I would a Bratva captain." Something about the analogy makes the blonde jump, but he doesn't have the time to analyze that. "And I need you to be prepared for that. I'm not going to be nice. I'm going to lie to you. I'm going to insult you. I'm going to yell at you. And I am _definitely_ going to try and intimidate you." He scoffs. "Fortunately for you, I'm not the most intimidating thing you've ever encountered."

It's quiet for a long moment before he finally says, "I know the guy in green has a soft spot for you, and I know taking you in could jeopardize the way we work together. But I want you to know that this isn't personal, and I hope you'll pass that on to him."

Felicity offers a careful smile. "The Arrow isn't the kind of man to hold grudges," she assures him. "He'll understand what kind of position this puts you in, and he'll respect it." It's her turn to hesitate. "I know this city sees him as some sort of angry, avenging angel in green leather, but he's not opposed to reason." She tilts her head to the side as she allows, "Well, most of the time. He can be kind of stubborn and growly, so sometimes it takes a while to get through to him." Lance turns to look at her for a moment; of all the things he expected her to say about the Arrow, that wasn't one of them. She shrugs self-consciously. "We argue a lot, which consists of him towering over me with his best glare while I yell at him."

Lance frowns before offering one last piece of advice: "And you sure as hell shouldn't say _that_."


	64. Firewall Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Detective Lance face off in the interrogation room. And yes, this fic is taking bets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while because I got kind of nostalgic through this one for reasons you'll probably see. I re-read a lot of old chapters for research, so this was kind of an emotional struggle this time. As much as I'm excited that it's almost time to move on to new adventures, I'm also kind of sad to see the last sixteen months of my life come to a close.
> 
> ...Sorry, I'm kind of an emotional wreck after writing this bonus scene today. Hopefully you'll see why.
> 
> We have two more chapters (I'm almost 100% sure, but I'll let you know if something changes) until the end.

As she walks into the interrogation room, Felicity can't help but think it looks a little bland. The walls are an off-white that looks like the pages of a book that have yellowed with age, and she can't help but think the trim color is ironic: a deep green, a shade somewhere between olive and emerald.

_Arrow_ green.

The metal table in the middle, along with the two very-uncomfortable-looking metal chairs draw her attention next, and Felicity decides she might be a little wrong about this whole thing. She thought she could do this, keep it together through whatever Lance dished out at her, but evidence to the contrary is starting to pile up. Though she'd rather die than give up Oliver's identity, suddenly it looks like a very real possibility that she might be protecting him from prison. Which would be remarkably difficult because she's fairly certain they won't let her do tech work for the Arrow then.

"Have a seat, Miss Smoak," Lance growls from behind her, and she takes a moment to remember what he said in the car. He's going to lie, manipulate, yell, and intimidate to get her to crack. This is just the first of those techniques, and it's only going to get worse from here.

With that in mind, she decides a little defiance is in order. No doubt someone is watching from the other side of that one-way glass, and she's not going to let Lance lose his job over her, even if she's going to be a tough nut to crack. As she turns to him, Felicity responds, "Actually, I think I'd prefer to stand, if you don't mind." She points. "That chair doesn't particularly look comfortable, and I'm not sure I want to sit down at anything I could be handcuffed to later."

Detective Lance turns his head away from the glass and the camera in the corner, and it takes her a moment to realize the action isn't of the Lord-give-me-strength variety. Not the way his mouth is turning up ever so slightly at the corners. When he turns back to her, though, the scowl is firmly in place. "That wasn't a suggestion," he snaps. Maybe he can be a little more intimidating than she thought. "Sit down."

Felicity drops into the chair with a flourish, but Lance continues to stand, picking up the folder on top of the desk and making a show of looking through it. She supposes it's a technique to make her sweat, but she knows he's already learned the file by heart. "Tell me, Miss Smoak," he starts without looking up, "what do you know about hacking?"

_Don't lie_ , she expressly remembers Lance saying when he was giving her advice, and Felicity takes him at his word. "I know it's unauthorized access of a computer with intent to tamper with it," she answers slowly. "I also know that it's illegal and a very nice way to earn jail time."

"You also know how to hack into a computer, don't you?" he asks with a harder tone to his voice. He holds up the file. "I have no idea what the hell any of this means, but our computer techs say you've been hacking computers for a long time, Miss Smoak." He slams the file down, and she jumps at the sound. "Our techs also say that code is as recognizable as handwriting, and we found yours in a secure server at Merlyn Global." Then Lance finally sits down across from her. "Mind telling me how that happened?"

"I write a lot of code for the IT Department at Queen Consolidated," Felicity decides to say after a long moment. Again, she's trying to be as honest as she can without directly lying to him. "I like my job in IT, but occasionally I've been asked to assist with some of our software and program applications in Software R&D." She shrugs, looking more flippant than she feels at the moment. "My coding is in a _lot_ of computers that I've never touched before. Merlyn Global and QC work closely together, and they do a lot of beta testing for us."

Lance doesn't dig any deeper into that, and they both know it's because he's trying to help her out as much as he can. "So you've never been to Merlyn Global?" he tries this time, and she _knows_ SCPD can get the security tapes any time they please.

Because of that, she again goes with the truth. "Once," Felicity admits. "It was a few days ago. Tommy, Oliver, and I were going to lunch together, and we met Tommy at Merlyn Global."

"And you've had plenty of opportunity to access the SCPD servers, too," comes his next accusation. "We gave you that when you consulted with us." Felicity realizes that this rabbit hole runs deeper than she thought; they shouldn't know about that. She used Barry's still-active login (from when he worked forensics) to enter the first time, and she made a backdoor for herself from there—by _deleting_ code, not adding it. They shouldn't even be able to connect it to their breach. "When we scan our servers, Miss Smoak, what are we going to find?"

"I have no idea what you'll find, Detective," she answers, "but you aren't going to find my fingerprints on the bios. I've never written code on an SCPD server, unless you're using Queen Consolidated software. If you are, then you might find some lying around."

"But we _did_ find code on your computer at QC—and your personal computers," he starts casually, and she wonders when he had time to search her computers. Then Felicity wonders if he did at all; Lance did warn her that he was going to lie to her.

His next words, though, make her think he isn't lying. "Our guys found evidence that you received an email about a sample of Vertigo you sent out to be analyzed. They found where you had searched for information on Derek Reston and looked up prices of arrows from Sagittarius—the same company that makes the Dark Archer's arrows. _You_ were the one who handed me a busted laptop that the Vigilante left behind." He crosses his arms. "These are all cases involving the Hood."

He leans across the table. "What am I thinking, Miss Smoak?"

Before she can answer, Lance continues, "Helping the Hood is a serious crime, Miss Smoak, and it isn't something we accuse people of lightly." Felicity doesn't think it would help her case if she pointed out that the last person they accused was Oliver and that Lance had ended up with egg on his face over that. "And because he's committed multiple felonies—multiple _murders_ —that means that everything you've done for him becomes a felony, too." In a lower voice, he growls, "You might as well have pulled that bowstring back yourself because you're going to prison for the crimes he committed."

He slides the file across the table, but Felicity knows better than to look at it. "Which means that your illegal hobby, which _would_ have cost you a few years in jail, now means you could spend the rest of your very _long_ life in prison." This time his smirk is a little predatory, and, despite it being an act, Felicity thinks that Lance rather enjoys this. "Women's prisons aren't very nice places for girls like you, Miss Smoak. No computers, and your fellow inmates will try to shove sharp objects in your kidneys."

When he leans across the table, Felicity has to admit Lance makes a pretty intimidating case. Then again, it's probably his place to paint the suspect into a corner of despair, make them think that the only way out is the one he's going to offer. And Felicity already knows he's _going_ to offer.

At least she's prepared for it. "But we can make that go away," he assures her. "We can sweep all of this under the rug. You can go home to your boyfriend and no one even knows you were involved in this." It's not the first time he's made an allusion to her dating today, and she wonders how much he knows. "But you have to do something for me first." He pulls a pen out of his pocket and offers it to her. "That's everything we have on the Hood, Miss Smoak. Give me a name for the folder, and I'll let you walk out of here without a charge. You'll never have to see me again."

Though she has no doubt that it would be a good offer under different circumstances, Lance is asking for the one thing Felicity can never give him. Then she remembers the one thing Helena said that she actually liked. "The Arrow," she answers quietly. Lance looks at her, so she says it again. "His name is the Arrow. That's the one I can give you."

Lance's brow furrows in irritation. "Don't give me that," he snaps. "I _saw_ you two together when Verdant burned down, and I _know_ you were the one he protected when you two broke into SCPD." He slams a hand against the table, making her jump again. "He has a soft spot for you." Felicity wonders if he understands the truth in his own words, though probably not. "He let down his guard with you, and I know you have his name. The only way you're walking out of here a free woman is if you give it to me."

It's only then that she remembers his last piece of advice: _You're not under arrest. You can walk out whenever you want to, despite what anyone tells you otherwise_. She's about to stand on her heel and do just that when his phone starts ringing. He checks it before looking at her. "I'll say this about the guy," he says, mostly to himself, "he has great timing."

Before Felicity can comprehend what he means, he answers the call, setting it on speaker. "I'm staring at your girl right now," he answers the phone call. "I'm assuming that you're trying to save her."

"If I have a girl," the modulated voice answers without pause, "she wouldn't need me to save her." Felicity tries, probably unsuccessfully, to hide a smile. "This is about something more important, Detective. Malcolm Merlyn has developed a plan to level the Glades, and I can't stop him on my own. If we're going to stop this, it's going to take all of us." He stops before adding pointedly, "Including my friends."

Lance doesn't even hesitate. "Tell me what you need me to do."

 

* * *

 

Though it's drafty and chilly tonight, Felicity hasn't ever been so glad to be down in the lair. There was a moment there where Lance had her believing that he'd lock her away and throw away the key. While she could be angry about it, she thinks it just makes the little things seem so much more important, like her computer setup below the scenes at Verdant.

She just pulls her peacoat a little tighter around herself.

Oliver squeezes her hand as he notices, lacing his fingers through hers. Diggle walks up to them, the expression on his face grim. He knows how much is at stake, too, and it's clear by his expression that he thinks their odds aren't exactly the best. Still, he doesn't voice any of that. "What's our next move?" he asks instead.

Shaking his head, Oliver drops Felicity's hand to pull himself onto the gurney. "I don't know," he admits slowly. "I've fought Merlyn twice, and I've lost both times." His voice is low, and Felicity knows it has to be agony for him to admit. "He says it's because I don't know what I'm fighting for." He laughs, but there's no humor in the sound. "And you know what? He's right. I—" He stops short, shaking his head.

Diggle seems to understand what isn't said, even though Felicity doesn't. "I've been there, man," he answers, leaning against one of the toolboxes. "You stared death in the face and you blinked." Felicity can't help but feel a swell of emotion for the man; he seems to understand the parts of Oliver that she can't, and she forgets sometimes that they're both soldiers in their own way.

Oliver is already shaking his head by the time Diggle finishes. "That's not it," he answers slowly. He seems to choose his words carefully before finishing the thought. "In the past five years, Diggle, I've fought enemies worse than Merlyn. Men who had more experience and more training than he does, and I had less skill then." The look he throws Felicity is an apology, as if he doesn't want her to hear what he's about to say, but she takes his hand as a show of solidarity. He won't scare her away. "But I never feared death. Not when I was on the island, not in Hong Kong, and not in Russia." Felicity starts at that, but it's a conversation for another time. "I wasn't afraid because I didn't have anything left to lose.

"But now I do," he insists. "I have my family. Mom and Thea already lost me once—I don't want them to go through that again. And Tommy—I don't want him to have to face what his father has done alone." Finally his eyes land on Felicity. "And you," he admits. With two simple words, he manages to put all of the things he can't say— _won't_ say because the timing is wrong—into the air. "I don't want to lose you, Felicity."

She squeezes his hand with a simple answer: "Then _don't_ , Oliver."

Oliver doesn't seem to understand, but Diggle does. "You think that the people you let in are taking your edge," he concludes on behalf of his friend. "But they aren't. Before, you fought for nothing. Now you fight for _something_. You have something to live for now, Oliver. You have a reason to fight to stay alive when you didn't." He offers a hint of a smile. "You can stare down death with something to live for or not. In my experience, something to live for is always better."

Felicity picks up the vein of the thought, finally getting it. "That's Merlyn's weakness," she proclaims, and both men turn toward her. "He's lost everything he could possibly want to fight for. His wife is dead and he and his son are estranged. We both know Tommy would never accept his dad doing this. All the things he could possibly want to fight for are gone." She takes a moment to search Oliver's expression. "So show him that you're not done fighting."

"And that you're not alone," Diggle adds firmly. "You haven't been in a long time—not since you brought the two of us into this. And this time you're bringing along something that you didn't have the last time: me." Oliver opens his mouth to protest, but Diggle barrels over the top of him. "It's army regulations—a soldier never lets a brother go into battle alone."

Felicity doesn't think she's ever wanted to hug John Diggle as much as she does right now. It isn't just about what he's said to Oliver, but about the fact that he's always going back Felicity's play to keep the team together. Oliver may have started this mission, but they're the ones that keep it going, who remind their fearless leader what he's fighting for when he forgets.

And she knows he's been thoroughly reminded when he says to Diggle, "I only have one bow left."

Digg snorts. "We live in the twenty-first century, Oliver," he responds dryly. "I'll bring my gun."

While the moment is beautiful, Felicity decides it's time for her to cut in. "I've been over the device schematics," she states as she drops Oliver's hand, moving back over to her computers. "It can be set for a timed detonation or remote-activated by a mobile transmitter. Merlyn probably has it on him." She pulls up the schematics in question. "I could hack into its signal and stop it from receiving, but the problem is that I'd lock myself out, too. Which doesn't do us any good if it's on a timer." She turns back to Oliver. "I'm going to need help if I'm going to dismantle this thing."

He looks at her as though she's spoken a foreign language—well, one of the few he doesn't understand, anyway. "You're not staying here," Oliver informs her, and Felicity finds it funny that he thinks he can tell her what to do. They may be sleeping together and she may love him desperately, but that doesn't mean he has any control over what she does and does not do. He must sense this because he adds, "Felicity, this whole area is going to be ground zero. It's not built to survive the kind of earthquake the device is going to cause. I need to know that, no matter what happens, you'll be safe."

It almost makes her cave. _Almost_. Instead, she crosses her arms as she sinks into her chair. "If you're not leaving, I'm not leaving," she answers, putting an end to any argument. "A lot of people that I care about are going to die if we don't stop this thing, and that's what _I'm_ fighting for, Oliver." She bites into her lip to prevent the emotion of her next words from washing over her. "And if you're willing to sacrifice for the good of this city, I will _always_ be willing to stand right next to you."

Reluctantly, he nods before relaying orders. "Lance has already relayed the information, and they're evacuating the Glades. Digg, call Sara—tell her to help with the evacuation effort. It's going to be chaos out there, and criminal activity is going to be rampant."

Then he picks up his Arrow phone and hits a speed dial number, probably the only one that still gets used these days. "Detective," he greets after a moment. "I need something else from you." There's a pause. "Merlyn is keeping the device in an abandoned subway station near Puckett Street—that's where is wife was murdered. All of my associates are busy, and I need someone to be there with the device while my partner disables it remotely." Another pause. "If you'll follow her instructions, I think she can talk you through it." There's another pause, and this one lasts longer than the two previous. "This city needs _heroes_ , Detective," Oliver answers finally, something in his tone corrective. "Like you and my partners. I'm just trying to stop the disease threatening this city with the only weapons I have. Call Felicity when you get to the subway station."

He's barely finished with the call when another comes through—this time on his own, personal cell phone. Oliver rushes through an answer as he grabs his suit and bow, already pulling off his shirt as he speaks to the caller. Finally he stops to put a hand on the receiver. "Felicity, pull up the local news, please," he insists.

Something drops to the pit of her stomach as she gets a feed of Moira Queen standing in front of a podium. "My name is Moira Queen," she announces to the crowd with complete and utter poise. As if they don't know who she is, Felicity can't help but think. "A few months ago, the Vigilante entered my office and told that I failed this city." Dread claws at Felicity. Did Moira figure out who the man under the hood is? Surely she wouldn't announce it if she did. She can't help a sigh of relief when the Queen matriarch presses on, "And, God forgive me, he was right. I _have_ failed this city." She looks away. "And worse than that, I have failed my family."

"No," Oliver whispers as he ends the call, and Felicity turns away to look at him. The raw pain on his face is overwhelming. "I talked to her before I came to see you," he explains quietly. "I told her that someone in our family needed to put an end to this, whatever the cost."

Moira picks up again, this time with more emotion, and Felicity reaches for Oliver's hand as she waits for the other shoe to drop. "I have spent the last five years doing horrible things under threats to my life and my children's lives. I have been complicit in an Undertaking to destroy the Glades and everyone in it." She shakes her head, and for once, Felicity actually feels sorry for her. "But if I let this happen, my family's safety will mean nothing.

"The architect of this nightmare is Malcolm Merlyn. I have proof that he has killed _dozens_ in pursuit of this madness. Adam Hunt. Frank Chen. Brian Markov." She hesitates for the first time. "Even my first husband, Robert, and, for five years, I thought he killed my son as well. If you live in the Glades, now is the time to evacuate. Your safety—and the safety of your children—depends upon it."

Felicity turns off the broadcast to look at Oliver. "I'm sor—" she starts, but he doesn't let her finish.

He sighs. "By doing this, my mother gave the people in the Glades a chance, Felicity," Oliver answers with an air of finality. "Now we make sure my mother's sacrifice isn't in vain. Now we stop the device—and we stop Malcolm Merlyn."


	65. File Corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity helps dismantle a bomb. All in a day's work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/1QaBPP0A9FOmPPtErBGqau).
> 
> Sorry this is so late. I worked over 40 hours this week at my "part-time" job, and I could barely manage to think at the end of the day, much less write. But at least I'm posting by Thursday in my time zone.
> 
> Also, I've just discovered that I'm the world's biggest asshole. Part of this chapter spiraled out of control, and I'm still a little stunned that I wrote it the way I did. So, I apologize in advance for ripping your heart out.

It takes her ten minutes to realize that she's pacing, and, when she does, Felicity decides she's spent too much time with Oliver. Staying still seems impossible; she has to keep moving, to do _something_. Oliver is probably fighting Merlyn, but the nagging feeling of doubt reminds her that the score is two-and-oh and _not_ in her boyfriend's favor. Sure, Diggle is with him, but that means she has two of them to worry about. Not to mention the fact that Roy is out there somewhere, and Lance is _not_ moving fast enough to the subway station.

She jumps when her cell phone rings, answering it on the spot when she hears the ringtone. "Now isn't a good time, Barry," she greets him, trying to pull off a calm demeanor. It doesn't really work, though; a moment too late, Felicity realizes she didn't use his nickname. "I'm kind of waiting for a call right now."

"I just saw the Moira Queen press conference on the news," he states, ignoring her hint to get off the line. "Please tell me you're not in the Glades right now. Please be at work or staying with Oliver until this blows over. Or the Arrow," he adds as an afterthought. "Does he live in the Glades? That would make sense."

Felicity rolls her eyes at his babbling. He must be nervous, too. "The Arrow does _not_ live in the Glades," she affirms. "And no, I'm not at work. "No, I'm not staying with Oliver, but if this damn thing goes off, I might have to for a while." She purses her lips together. "And I'm in the Glades, but I'm in the safest building in the neighborhood—the Arrow made sure of that."

It doesn't seem to comfort Barry, as he sighs. Felicity can practically see his hand running through his hair in worry. Even so, he knows better than to try and argue with her. "Where's the Arrow? Are you at least with him?"

Felicity pulls a face. "Kind of," she answers. "We're currently on radio silence, but he has help with him." Before he can worry any more than he already is, she adds, "I kind of need to make a call—I'm trying to remotely disarm the Markov device."

There's a long pause before he finally asks, "I know you love this guy, Felicity, but are you sure that dating the Arrow is worth the danger?"

A smile spreads across her face before she answers the easiest question of her life. "Absolutely. No regrets, Watson." Something makes her choke up—probably the sense of impending doom. "And just so you know… You're my best friend and I love you." A familiar chime comes from her phone—one of many things she's been waiting for tonight. "I have to go, but I'll call you after."

Felicity terminates the call before he can respond, then answers the second call. "Please tell me you have my dog," she answers without preamble. Then she adds, "Oh, and that you're safe and out of the Glades before this starts."

"Yeah, I see who you care about the most," Roy huffs, but she can hear the smile in his voice. Knowing he wouldn't tease her unless everything was fine, Felicity breathes a sigh of relief. "Thea has the pooch—I kind of stopped to pull people out of a burning bus."

"Thea?" she asks, eyebrows narrowing in confusion. Then the second half of that conversation comes back to her. "Are you _kidding_ me, Harper? I _specifically_ gave you early warning so that you could get out of there before you were _killed_. While I understand your insatiable urge to be a hero—after all, my boyfriend is currently trying to stop Merlyn from putting this whole thing into motion—could you at least tone it down to pulling cats out of trees?"

The response she receives is amused, and she doesn't appreciate it as much this time. "I can't climb, Blondie," he answers in a dry tone, and Felicity makes a mental note to slap him the next time she sees him. "And don't worry—Thea is fine. She came to save me." His voice turns up at the end as though he's surprised by the revelation, and the blonde can't fight a smile. The two of them make a good pair. "And she has Saphira, so she's fine."

"I'm going to hold you to that," she states seriously, and she notices that the GPS device in Lance's phone puts him near the subway. "Roy, I have to go disarm a seismic bomb, but be careful, okay? Because, if I…" She trails off because she can't bear the thought. "If I don't see you again, I'm going to be royally pissed."

"Sounds like you could use that advice more than me, if you're dismantling a bomb," he retorts. "And likewise, Blondie—watch yourself." Then the teenager hesitates, as though he wants to say something else. Felicity is about to ask when he offers, "But at least we're in good hands. If anyone can tear apart a bomb like that, it's you."

Again, she finds that words escape her. He hangs up before she can say anything more, but it takes her a moment before she can manage to dial Lance's number. It rings several times before he answers, and each one makes her a little more nervous. Finally, a gruff voice answers, "Lance."

Felicity doesn't bother with the usual small talk—too much is at risk for that. "I can't tell if you're _in_ the subway or not, but the device's signal is about three feet in front of you if you're underground." She gives him the opportunity to answer, but he doesn't. Then she frowns at his tracker on the screen—stopped, with no movement. "Well, it's more at your two o'clock, provided you're facing West, but you're not going to reach it if you don't keep moving."

Another long, pregnant pause, he finally manages to respond. "How the hell do you know where I am, Smoak?" Then he manages to compose himself. "Or 'Oracle,' I guess. Isn't that what the Arrow calls you?"

"Sometimes," Felicity answers slowly. "And I'm sort of tracing the GPS location on your cell phone. Which is kind of a moral and legal gray area, but I'm hoping you'll give me this one because I'm about to stop a device from destroying the Glades."

"Honestly," he answers in a grim tone, "I'm not sure I'll be a police officer after this goes down." Before Felicity can ask for specifics, he states, "And I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for. Wanna fill me in on this thing?"

Recognizing the subject change for what it is, the blonde answers, "I'm not sure what you want to know about this device, Detective." Felicity doubts he wants to know all of the technical specifications she has found over the few weeks; she remembers the way he told her to talk to him like a third grader before when she started technical babble. "Do you want me to describe it to you?"

There's a huff, and she thinks it might be a laugh. "I'm currently looking at a cylinder that's eight feet tall and glowing," he answers dryly. "I think I've got it."

Deciding that his sarcasm isn't helpful, Felicity decides to give him a taste of his own medicine. "Don't worry, it's going to be a giant paperweight in about three minutes." Launching into the specifications on her computer, she pulls up the small box that contains everything she needs. "You should see something that looks like a circuit board—pull it out."

There's a grunt and then, "Got it. I can see a timer now. I think we have about seven minutes." A sigh crackles across the connection. "You still think you can disable it in three?"

"Oh ye of little faith, Detective," Felicity answers. Maybe she shouldn't take it so personally, but she's proved her competence a few times in the past, and she doesn't think it would be asking much for him to trust her. "I know there are three wires for you to work with—green, yellow, and blue, if you want to find them—but I need to try and jam the signal before I do. If Merlyn decides to remote detonate, this thing blows. I don't think we need that kind of added stress."

After a long period of digging, she finally says, "I think we're set up on this end, Detective. Do you have the wires?"

He sighs through the line. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret answering this," he drawls in a long-suffering tone, "but I found them. Let me guess. I need to cut one."

"Blue," is Felicity's abrupt answer. "Despite Merlyn's obvious penchant for evil, I have to give him points for breaking a major stereotype. Not a single red wire on the specs." She thinks about that for a moment. "Still, I suppose that he loses some for the whole cut-the-wire-now cliche." Before she can continue discussing villainy in all its forms, a whirring noise starts up in the background. "Please tell me that's a UFO landing."

"The timer is counting down faster, Felicity," Lance answers in a panicked voice. "Tell me what to do."

Felicity feels the panic creeping up, but she fights it back down. She isn't going to be of any use to anyone if she freaks out now. "It has to be an anti-tamper safeguard," she answers as calmly as she can manage. "Hold on—I'm going figure out how to override it."

"There's not enough time," Lance responds sharply.

Ignoring his comment, she takes one last search through the schematics. "Detective, I need you to listen to me very carefully. We're going to take this thing down." The only problem is that the components on the circuit board are highly technical, and that he'd have to be careful. "On the circuit board," she continues slowly, "there's a round, black cylinder that should stick out. Smaller than a dime, probably connected to the board by white wire. Disconnect it from the board. Pull the wire between the cylinder and the board. That's the power supply. This thing can't go off if it doesn't have any power to it."

There's an impossibly long pause, and then Lance says, "Got it! I've got it. The device is down."

Felicity breathes a sigh of relief just as the comm picks up, to Oliver calling her name. "I have to go, Detective—thanks for all your help. Go find your daughter—and be careful out there." Oliver calls her name once more as she hangs up, and this time she notices his voice is strained. "The device is deactivated, Oliver. What's wrong with you? You sound funny."

"I'm sorry," is his laconic answer. Felicity's stomach drops; he never apologizes to her. She goes through the scenarios that he could possibly be apologizing for, and she can only think of one. And it's the worst scenario of them all. Words don't escape when she opens her mouth, but, unlike her, Oliver knows what to say. "Take care of Thea for me."

"I'll do that," another voice cuts in, and Felicity shivers when she recognizes it. Malcolm Merlyn. "The first thing I'm going to do when I finish with you is find your mother and sister—they can join you in death." Then, with the edge of a gloat, Merlyn adds, "You may know what you're fighting for now, Oliver, but you didn't know _how_ to fight for it."

Oliver ignores him for a moment, and his next words destroy her. "I love you, Felicity." He doesn't cut the comm line—she isn't sure if it's a blessing or a curse—but his next words are aimed at Merlyn. "Thank you for teaching me what I'm fighting for. But my father showed me how." The line goes perfectly silent after that.

"Oliver?" she can't help but whisper, hoping for an answer. It doesn't come, and she knows why. The tears she's been fighting so hard well up now, but it's nothing compared to the anger. All that work, all that heartache, for _nothing_. They might have saved the city, but at what cost?

But then she realizes it was always going to end this way. Oliver knew that; it's why he fought the pull between them for so long. Despite that, Felicity knows she wouldn't have traded the whole experience for anything in the world. And that she would trade the world away for another ending to this story.

Suddenly, her whole world starts shaking. Concrete crumbles from the ceiling, dust falling everywhere. One of the stairwells collapses, blocking an exit. It takes her a moment to wonder how the device could still go off, but then she sees the print at the bottom of the blueprint: "Device #002." There were _two_ of them. Only now do her words to Oliver feel real: _We're playing with higher stakes. When we lose, we lose big._

And now they've lost it all.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the ground starts shaking, Tommy knows. He _knows_ that it's over, that his bastard of a father has won, and that it could only mean that Ollie, Diggle, and Felicity weren't there to stop it. His stomach drops, already starting to mourn the loss of three of the best friends he's ever known, and he knows that his father is out there somewhere, gloating over this destruction.

But he can't think about that now. Now, Tommy Merlyn makes an executive decision only to think about the living. He made a run for CNRI as soon as he saw the press conference Mrs. Q pulled together. But with the streets packed from the mass exodus, it had been a long push into the city. Now he's here, and he _knows_ the building is falling apart.

And he doesn't see Laurel standing around outside.

He reaches for one of the women standing around. "Where's Laurel?" he asks her. She looks a little frightened by his desperation, but he'll smooth it over later. "Laurel Lance—did she make it out?" Finally, she shakes her head, and Tommy doesn't even stop to thank her. All he knows is that Laurel is in that building somewhere, and he's not leaving without her.

The doorway is halfway destroyed and collapsing, but Tommy slowly makes his way through it. Half of the walls have collapsed, but there seems to be a pathway through the debris. The ceiling has fallen in places, bookcases and filing cabinets are overturned. One in the corner looks as though it's been crushed by the debris. Only after his eyes adjust to the chaos does he realize one isn't a filing cabinet at all.

It's a body.

Fearing it could be Laurel, he makes his way over to it carefully. He doesn't have to get close to know it isn't—the hair is too dark. He reaches for her neck to check for a pulse, but there isn't one. Only then does he recognize the woman's face, and he's upset to realize that the woman in front of him is Johanna de la Vega, one of Laurel's best friends in the office. He can't help but feel a flash of rage at his father; her death is senseless. Then he wonders how many _other_ people had to die for a pointless cause—and if Laurel is one of them.

"There's nothing left to do for Johanna," a voice calls, causing Tommy to jump. Even so, he recognizes it; he'd know that modulated, female voice anywhere. He turns around to find her crouched over another body, one with wavy brown hair. "Laurel will be fine—the wall pinned her and she's unconscious, but she'll make it." As if to emphasize the Canary's point, Laurel coughs. "She's coming around now. I'll help her out of the building. You need to go before it collapses."

Though he knows the Canary wouldn't lie to him, Tommy hesitates. He scrambled through the collapsing building to find Laurel, and, now that he has, he's hesitant to leave without her in his arms. "This place is falling apart," he points out. "What if you—"

The Canary offers him a smirk that strikes at the corners of his memory. There's a sense of irony in it, as though she's making a joke she _knows_ he won't understand. "As far as the world is concerned, I'm already dead, Tommy. I don't have anything left to lose." After a long moment, her expression turns to grave seriousness. "I'm smaller—I can move faster than you, even while supporting someone else's weight. And I'm not going to leave my sister here to die. Or let you die trying to save her."

It takes him a moment to register, but when he does, Tommy gapes at her. Sara. All this time, he's been staring at Sara Lance. Suddenly it all makes sense: how Ollie was so quick to trust her, why he wouldn't tell Tommy her identity when the rest of the team clearly knew, why she was quick to appear when the assassin was after Laurel.

Before coherency returns to him, she pushes him away. "Go, Tommy. _Now_." This time he doesn't hesitate, climbing and crawling through the building, somehow managing to make it back to the exit again.

He nearly gets stuck in the entrance, but a hand pulls him out. When he turns to thank the man, he's surprised to find himself looking up at Quentin Lance. "Thanks," he manages to say. "The blonde chick in black? She has Laurel." For some reason that makes no sense to him, he feels the need to add, "Both of them are fine." It's crazy; Lance doesn't even know his youngest daughter is still alive.

Lance opens his mouth to answer, but an aftershock interrupts him. The whole building shakes for a moment, and then Tommy hears the distinct sound of building materials collapsing behind him.

Immediately he turns around to go back in after the two women, but Lance grabs his arm with a certain amount of acceptance. He's just as desperate to go in there, Tommy can tell, but he knows to be cautious. "Wait until the shock is over," he suggests. "Enough people have died tonight, kid—don't make yourself one of them."

The wait is agony, but both of them make it together. Every second feels like an eternity, but the building shakes for several more minutes, long enough that Tommy's legs get used to the shaking feeling under his feet.

It's small but he sees it: the tip of a silver staff poking through one of the windows. She throws the weapon through the opening, and a black-clad hand grabs the window sill. Tommy releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as another hand joins it, this one thin and tan with red fingernail polish he'd watched her apply last night.

He doesn't hesitate to reach a hand out, to pull Laurel forward. He stumbles when she trips, and somehow she ends up on top of him, but none of that matters. She's alive, she's in his arms, and everything is right with the world. When she tilts her head up to look at him, he can't resist saying, "Hey, beautiful."

The laugh that follows is glorious.

Movement catches his attention, and he watches with blatant curiosity as Lance pulls the masked blonde out of the window. Sara is more graceful than her sister, but, then again, her leg isn't broken and she's had some serious lessons in ass-kicking. "Thank you, Detective," she states in a very detached voice. In a way, it reminds Tommy of the way Ollie spoke when he first came home.

"You saved my daughter," he answers with a shrug, "and you help the Arrow with whatever the hell he does for this city. I think we can call it even." He studies her for a long moment. "You have a name or something?"

Her response is a rush in some language Tommy doesn't understand, beautiful and probably Arabic. "It means 'Canary,'" she answers as Tommy helps Laurel into a standing position. He pulls Laurel against him, and she smiles up at him.

Lance extends his hand. "Thank you, Canary."

Tommy watches her hesitate, understands how much she doesn't want to mix her past with the person she's become. "It was the least I could do," she answers simply. Finally, she shakes his hand quickly.

Laurel pulls forward, hobbling away from Tommy. "Thank you so much for all you've done for me," she says to the woman she doesn't recognize as her sister. "You've saved me twice now. I'm not sure I can ever repay you for this."

Sara's response is immediate: "There's nothing to repay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Open Your Eyes (Deep Blue Songspell)" - Bea Miller  
> "The World I Used to Know" - We Came as Romans  
> "Afterlife" - Avenged Sevenfold  
> "City" - Hollywood Undead  
> "Hear Me Now" - Hollywood Undead  
> "Last Resort" - Papa Roach  
> "Knives and Pens" - Black Veil Brides


	66. Removal of Outdated Software

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epic conclusion of eighteen months of a writer's life. Thanks, everyone, for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to the playlist for this chapter [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/6rVTDeg7HqijSdSkMcCdI3).
> 
> My dear audience,
> 
> It kind of seems fitting that today I'm posting the new chapter from a strange city that I'm going to spend the next four years of my life in. Just as one chapter of my life is coming to a close, so is the behemoth of a story I've been posting every Thursday for a very long time.
> 
> As we draw to an end, I want to thank all of you for taking this journey with me for the past eighteen months. It's truly been a pleasure sharing this story with you all, and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have. Your responses have been kind, have helped me press on through good times and bad. I can't tell you what it means that you've stuck with me for so long to see this through to its completion.
> 
> So thanks, friends, for everything. Maybe I'll see you with a sequel one day, but only time will tell.
> 
> With love,  
> Masque

Thirty minutes after the second aftershock, Felicity decides that it might finally be over. At least the building isn't threatening to shake apart anymore, even if it does look like a war zone. Once she had enough sense to react, she had ducked under the computer desk to avoid the carnage of the earthquake. It seems to have served her well; somehow, she wasn't even injured in the chaos.  
  
As she crawls out from under it, it's to find that her computers weren't so lucky. While they survived the initial earthquake, the aftershocks had knocked loose enough of the ceiling to cover them in dust and debris. The monitor on the middle one has toppled over, and the one to the left has a huge spiderweb-like crack across the screen that makes her soul hurt. The power seems to have gone out, and all that saves her from being stuck in the dark is the emergency lighting. The only thing that seems to be undamaged is the giant, green Box of Island Things-rather disheartening in light of the circumstances.  
  
Slowly she rises to her feet, ignoring the dust on her clothes and in her hair, to take a better look at her surroundings. The staircase that leads into the club is doing its best impersonation of a pretzel, and the medical toolbox is lying on its side. Felicity moves over to it, shoving some of the medical supplies into her purse in case anyone needs them. God knows they're going to need a lot of them.  
  
Only then does she turn to the second entrance, and she stops short when she finds a chunk of concrete blocking her path. The door is unlocked, she knows-the locks are set to automatically turn off when there's no power, for reasons exactly like this one-but it doesn't help if she can't get to the door. Tentatively, she tries to move one of the smaller pieces, only to find it impossible to budge. Of course it couldn't be this easy-and of course phone service has to be down all over the Glades.  
  
"Felicity!" a voice calls through the door, and she jumps.  
  
Fortunately, though, she knows that voice, and she breathes a sigh of relief at the sound of it. "Diggle? I'm here!" she yells back, hoping he can hear her. "There's a huge slab of concrete blocking the door-I can't get out." After a moment of hesitating, she asks the question she needs to know the answer to: "What did you do with..." Her voice cracks, and she tries to find another way to phrase it. "With Oliver?"  
  
"I tried to tell you after everything happened, but the comm link went down after we lost the wireless signal," Diggle answers. "Oliver is in the back of the van-and he's alive, Felicity." For a second, she thinks she hears him wrong, but he continues. "We need to get him to a hospital as soon as possible, but he's conscious and he'll make it."  
  
As soon as the thought Oliver is alive registers, Felicity mutters a quick, "Oh, thank God." Then she carefully makes her way back to the bathroom, to where his clothes are scattered across the floor. They're covered in dust and a little frayed, but they'll work better than sending him into the hospital in his Arrow gear. As she turns back toward the staircase, a thought occurs to her. "John, did you grab his bow? And the quiver? Please say yes."  
  
"Of course," he answers after a long moment. "I didn't know if there could be prints on it." Then another short pause. "Why?"  
  
Even though she knows he can't see it, Felicity smiles. "Because I have a plan to get me out of here," she explains. "Oliver always has explosive arrows in his quiver. I bet you could knock this concrete loose with one of those."  
  
Diggle is quiet for a long moment on the other side of the door. "I have the bow and quiver," he finally answers. "Only problem is, you have to fire one of those to activate it. I don't know about you, Felicity, but my archery skills are a little rusty."  
  
The blonde closes her eyes, thinking of all the times she's seen Oliver shoot, all the things she's picked up over her tenure with Team Arrow. "There should be a notch on the bow-slip the arrow in place and pull back on the draw until the light turns green," she suggests after a long moment. "The fletching should be even with your chin when you line up your shot. Take a deep breath. When you exhale, release the draw."  
  
It's silent for a moment, but then finally Diggle answers. "Alright. Attempt number one." Then, after a slight pause, he adds, "You might want to take a step back from the door."  
  
Seconds after she does as he asks, the door burst inward with the force of an explosion. The concrete slabs shift slightly, chunks of them falling to the floor below. Felicity studies it for a moment before deciding that she might be able to attempt the staircase now. "We good or do I need to try again?" Diggle asks her.  
  
"We're good," Felicity assures him. "I think I can crawl through this mess." Before she starts, she pushes the bag across the slabs, to where she can see Digg's shoes peeking through. "Grab the bag-I have medical supplies and Oliver's clothes. I didn't think it would be a good idea for him to show up at a hospital in the green hood-not with the cops out to get him."  
  
The bag disappears through the hole, and Felicity tries to follow it as Diggle replies, "Probably a good idea." When she manages to poke her head out of the other end, the ex-military man offers her a hand that she gladly takes. Then he takes a moment to examine her. "You okay?"  
  
Felicity nods, realizing too late that she forgot her jacket in the lair. She rubs at her bare arms, deciding that it isn't worth it to go back for it. Brushing some of the loose strands of her ponytail away from her face, she finally answers, "Sprained my wrist when I ducked under the table. But I'm better now that I know you two are safe." She takes a few strides forward. "Come on-let's get him to a hospital before 'safe' fades away again."  
  
She follows him to the van, pulling open the back doors. She expects something terrible after that goodbye: blood everywhere, Oliver unconscious with a rag taped to a gaping wound. Instead, he's sitting up with his feet resting on the toolkit of medical supplies. His hood is back and his mask is hanging around his neck. One hand holds a towel in place over his chest, but the other is in his lap, his thumb rubbing the side of his index finger.  
  
His head immediately swivels when the doors open, and the relief on his face is so raw that her breath catches. Even though she knows she should probably try to start helping him into street clothes, Felicity can't help but cup his face in her hands. Somehow a strangled sob comes out, and and she irritates herself when she has to stop to wipe away tears. Only now does she decide to cry-after she's lost him and found him again.  
  
Stupid hormones.  
  
Oliver doesn't say anything because he doesn't have to. Instead, he pulls her hands away from her face, replacing them with his own. After a moment, he pulls her hair loose from the ponytail that is barely holding anyway, and then Felicity feels his thumbs against her jaw. They both know that they nearly lost each other, but neither one has any interest in talking about it.  
  
Fortunately, Diggle has the good sense to pull them back on track. From the driver's seat, he calls, "Felicity, do you think you can put him in civilian clothes while we're on the road?" After a quiet laugh, he adds, "From experience, I can tell you that leather fits like a glove."  
  
Jolting into action at the reminder, Felicity starts pulling clothes out of the bag. "Fortunately for me," she answers, distracted, "I've had some experience with that." Only when she hears Oliver's quiet chuckle does she realize what she said. "And no one here needed to know that."  
  
"Some of us already did," Oliver answers quietly. His voice is rough with disuse and sluggish with exhaustion, but he still smiles through it. Then he drags the zipper on his jacket down as she throws him the blue button-down shirt. While he holds pressure to the wound, she helps him slip his arms out of it and into the proper shirt.  
  
A thought occurs to her, one she doesn't like: "This shirt doesn't have any holes in it, Oliver. No one will buy that you were... whatever we're saying you were. Impaled, maybe? I'm thinking that matches your wounds." She studies it for a moment. "I really hope you don't like that shirt because we probably need to cut some holes in it."  
  
It doesn't even seem to faze him, either because he can always afford to buy another one or he's hurting too bad to care. "Fine," he assures her. "My knife is in the inside pocket of the jacket-cut a circle, not a slash. Both sides."  
  
After retrieving the knife, Felicity does as he asks before scurrying to help him into the rest of his civilian clothes. Only then does she find the strength to voice her thoughts. "I thought you were... gone, Oliver." Even now she can't bear to say it, to think about the way they nearly lost it all.  
  
He pulls her against him, his free hand curling around her waist until she's leaning against his good shoulder. Then he finds something very interesting about the dark upholstery across from him, refusing to look at her. "I had to do something," Oliver answers evenly. "He was going to kill my family after he finished with me. So when I saw that arrow on the ground..." His mouth snaps shut abruptly.  
  
It takes Felicity a moment to put it together, but slowly the realization comes. He did this to himself, slid that arrow through his shoulder so that he could stop Malcolm Merlyn. She doesn't know how she feels about that; while Felicity admires the way he always places his family above himself (and the city, too), she doesn't like how he sees himself as disposable, just another pawn in a great game of chess.  
  
Oliver Queen is many things, but not disposable. Not to her.  
  
When he finally realizes she isn't going to answer his statement, he admits slowly, "I didn't have a choice-Malcolm was going to destroy this city for some twisted version of revenge." So quietly she barely hears it, he adds, "I don't know how I'm going to face Tommy after this."  
  
"You won't," Felicity assures him. Then she places her hand atop the one on her hip as emphasis for what she says next: "But we will."

 

* * *

 

  
  
When Oliver awakens, his first insinct is to bolt upright, but a hand presses against his shoulder to stop him from moving. Under different circumstances, he might actually try to break it, but the touch isn't foreign or even unwelcome.  
  
"Take it easy," Felicity warns in a low voice. "We told them you were at my place when the building collapsed and a piece of the frame caught you." Her voice breaks once as she continues, "They said you were lucky-it barely missed your heart." She sobers, though, when she adds, "I called Thea after you got out of surgery-she's on her way here now."  
  
Only then does Oliver attempt to open his eyes. At first his surroundings are blurry-probably the after-effects of the anesthesia, he realizes-but then the sterile, white room comes into proper focus. When he tries to speak, his mouth is dry, one of the things he despises about anesthesia.  
  
He'd tried to tell them not to bother with it, but they wouldn't listen. Already the hospitals were starting to fill, and he knew it was only a matter of time until they ran out of supplies and medicine. They tried to push him through the line because he's Oliver Queen, of course, but that one he'd been able to fight. After all, the kid that Digg and Felicity helped to haul into the building had part of her intestines hanging out, and her injury was much more life-threatening than his. He reminds himself to check in on the girl later-Felicity would want to know how she's doing.  
  
Vaguely he remembers her introducing herself as Sin.  
  
Dismissing the thought for now, he turns to look at the woman beside him, closing his eyes tightly when everything starts to spin. "Where's the control for the bed? I'd like to sit up."  
  
Her hand is replaced by a rectangular, bulky remote. "Glad to see you have your priorities in order," Felicity teases him. "First sitting up, then talking to your girlfriend about how you're feeling after some doctor put sixty stitches into you."  
  
He doesn't answer, of course; there's no way he can explain it to her without sounding paranoid and damaged. It's just that lying down in a weakened state prevents him from seeing the entirety of his hospital room, makes it more difficult to watch for any threats that might appear.  
  
Oliver might have left the island, but he doesn't think that the island will ever leave him.  
  
As soon as he has the bed at a height more suited to his need to know his surroundings, Oliver places a hand to the back of Felicity's neck, pulling her over so that he can kiss her. It's something simple that he's been wanting to do since the van, to remind himself that they made it through the Undertaking, even if it didn't end the way they'd hoped.  
  
Something takes over the kiss that he meant to be chaste; maybe it's the passion that never seems to get old, or perhaps it's just the panic of nearly losing one another. Either way, they manage to cling to one another, even if Felicity is careful not to let her hands touch the fresh wound on his shoulder.  
  
After breaking away, she smiles at him. "Not that I'm complaining," she starts, a little breathless, "but what was that for?"  
  
Felicity jumps as a voice from the hallway adds, "Other than making innocent bystanders want to puke." They both turn at the voice, especially as they recognize the breathy laugh that follows. The girl from before, Sin, is pale and looks exhausted in her wheelchair, but it's the woman behind her that draws Oliver's attention.  
  
Her hair is pulled under a Starling Rockets cap and her clothes are baggy and nondescript. At first glance, someone would probably peg her as a teenage boy, but Oliver has known Sara Lance too long not to recognize her presence. It's the small things: the way she stands, the way her head swivels to take in her surroundings, the way her hands clench at every small noise.  
  
The dark-haired girl throws a thumb over her shoulder at Sara. "I told her that Study Group Barbie with purple lipstick and a huge dude in a nice suit helped me into the hospital," she explains her presence, "and she seemed to think I could find you here. I wanted to say thanks for not leaving me outside to rot." Her eyes flicker to Oliver for a moment. "Especially when he didn't look much better than I did."  
  
Felicity shrugs, taking the reluctant gratitude with a smile. "We were glad to help," she answers simply. "Even more so if we'd known you were a friend of Sara's." Both visitors start at the information, and Oliver isn't quite sure why they're surprised. Of course Felicity notices it, too, and she aims her question at the other blonde in the room. "How much does she know, Sara?"  
  
"All the things that matter," Sara answers evenly. In a turn of events, she levels a knowing look at Oliver. "How much do you want her to know?"  
  
He answers it by turning to Sin and stating simply, "Felicity is tech support for the Arrow-that's how she knows Sara." He hears the IT expert mutter something that sounds like worst kept secret in Starling City under her breath, and he can't fight back the smile that results. In a rare bout of honesty, he also decides to add, perhaps a little smugly, "She also happens to be dating him."  
  
The light dawns pretty fast for someone who is probably waking up from major abdominal surgery. "Anyone ever tell you it's creepy when you talk about yourself in the third person like that?" Sin asks him.  
  
"All the damn time," Diggle replies from the doorway. He gives the girl a nod. "Glad to see you're doing okay." Then he offers a brief nod of respect to the Canary before turning back to the girl. "Guess this means you're part of Team Arrow now, too."  
  
Oliver is exhausted, in pain, and trying to recover from surgery, but he still finds it in him to answer, "We don't call it that." He can't help it; the name is wrong. If the team had a name, it shouldn't be named after him. He's just a part-a very small part in the grand scheme of things. Felicity is his analytical guide who works him through the facts. Diggle is the emotional driving force who reminds him of his purpose. Sara is the one who can diffuse any situation with ease. Even Roy serves his part, gathering information and listening to word on the streets in the Glades. It might have been his concept, but it's long since evolved past what he meant this crusade to be.  
  
Felicity rolls her eyes at his comment. "He's touchy about the name," she explains to Sin, "but he's slowly warming up to the idea." Oliver opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts right over the top of him. "But he's stubborn, so we might still be having this conversation next year. Hopefully it won't involve a hospital."  
  
"You don't call it Team Arrow," another voice corrects from the doorway, and it makes Oliver's stomach drop. Tommy. "But the rest of us do, Ollie. You might as well admit defeat." He steps through the crowd to his friend's bedside. "Glad you made it through all right, buddy. I heard the doctor say that an inch could have meant no more green arrows in bad guys."  
  
"Tommy, I-" Oliver tries, but his best friend cuts him off.  
  
The look on his face immediately says that he doesn't want to talk about it, and Oliver understands; his past is filled with things he doesn't want to discuss, either. "If it had to be you or him," Tommy answers, "I'm glad it was him." A sigh of relief leaves Oliver. Tommy isn't angry about what he's done. They'll need to talk about it later, of course, but for right now, it's all that matters.  
  
Oliver knows the moment between the team isn't going to last. Eventually, Sara will have to disappear out a side exit, taking Sin back to her room before she does. Tommy will go check on Laurel, and Diggle will want to see his nephew and sister-in-law to make sure they're okay after the quake. Even Felicity will slip away from him at some point-even though he knows she'll always return to him-to go eat, to call her mother, to answer a probing call from Detective Lance. But, at least for now, they're together, relatively unharmed and safe.

And, for right now, it's enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> "Radioactive" - Pentatonix & Lindsey Stirling  
> "Uncharted" - Sara Bareilles  
> "Weightless" - All Time Low  
> "Centuries" - Fall Out Boy  
> "Beautiful Times" - Owl City feat. Lindsey Stirling
> 
> You might have questions about what I'm planning next, now that TA is done. The honest to God answer is that I don't know. I have several stories started that I'd love to explore over the next few months, as well as some universes I'd love to return to. The Monsters in the Mirror and The Drug in Me is You universes have been calling me back over the last few weeks, but we'll see. I hope to see you all when I post the next bout of insanity! ;)
> 
>  
> 
> **Itching for more? You can find a short, unfinished snippet of what's in store for this universe[here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4866929/chapters/11498947).**


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